Wise Men Flatt'ring
by volley
Summary: On a dangerous mission with Malcolm, Trip learns the hard way that magic charms cannot heal a wounded heart. Post Terra Prime, happily ignoring TATV
1. Chapter 1

This story is set after the Terra Prime events, ignoring TATV. Loads of cookies to my beta readers, Gabi2305 and RoaringMice

§ 1 §

When Malcolm put his head inside the shuttlepod, Trip was already there, busy doing pre-flight checks.

"Commander," he greeted, automatically going into professional gear. Smirking, he tried to convince himself that the unconscious choice had been dictated by their imminent mission, rather than by the withdrawn mood in which Trip had fallen since his daughter's death, a few weeks before.

Trip, indeed, barely spared him a glance and a nod, silently turning back to the piloting console. With an inward sigh, Malcolm stepped inside and went about his own business, checking supplies and the weapons' array. They worked side by side for nearly twenty minutes, but they might just as well have been on different worlds. And this estrangement of sorts, after four years of sharing with this man more than he had shared with his own family in a lifetime, didn't sit well with him.

"Everything is fine, as far as I'm concerned," Malcolm finally said, swivelling in his chair to face the Engineer. He had to wait long seconds before his words were acknowledged.

"Alright," Trip eventually said, stopping what he was doing and turning. "I'll need another ten minutes." He glanced at the time, then back at Malcolm. "Departure in half an hour. Wouldn't mind if you informed the Capt'n."

"Aye, Sir," Malcolm dutifully replied. He put a slightly provocative accent on the last word, purposefully trying to get a rise out of the man, but it got no response. Just a few weeks ago calling Trip _Sir _would have earned him a glare and a teasing remark. Malcolm pursed his lips; then pushed to his feet and exited the vessel without another word.

Walking along the corridor towards the turbo lift, he felt the knot of tension in the pit of his stomach tighten. He always did experience a certain amount of anxiety prior to a mission, but this time it was different. This time, if he were honest with himself, it wasn't so much the mission that made him nervous, it was the man he was to carry it out with; he didn't feel overly comfortable going on a mission with Trip. Trip had been through a lot, and even though his physical and psychological integrity had been certified by Phlox, Malcolm wondered if it was a good idea to employ him doing anything other than caring for his beloved engines, just yet. His arm may have healed, but as for his heart, that was another matter.

"Malcolm!"

The voice made him stop and turn. Seeing Hoshi there, he allowed her to catch up with him.

"I've updated a couple of UTs with the latest data available," the Comm. Officer said, handing him the devices.

"Thank you," Malcolm replied, his voice coming out a bit flatter than he had intended.

Hoshi immediately frowned. "What's the problem?"

"Problem? No problem." Lowering his eyes, Malcolm turned the UTs in his hands, well aware of Hoshi's dark and assessing gaze. "Just feeling the pressure of the coming mission." Putting on a smile that he knew was not reaching his eyes, he lifted his gaze again. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Take care of yourselves," Hoshi said almost as a warning.

"Always."

Malcolm lost himself for a moment in the Ensign's expressive features. "I must go," he then said, feeling his smile fade. "Got to find Captain Archer."

* * *

"Lieutenant." Archer glanced up from his monitor. "Come in, I'll be with you in a minute."

With a sharp nod Malcolm stepped inside the ready room, letting the door swish closed, and stood at parade rest. Automatically, he fixed his gaze straight ahead, but after a while it strayed to his Captain. The man had a concentrated expression on his face and he was suddenly reminded of the Jonathan Archer who had summoned him for a job interview in a San Francisco Starfleet office, more than four years before. That time too Archer had been absorbed in something and made him wait a few moments. That time too there had been a knot in his gut, though one of anticipation. But those two people were gone, replaced by these here now. So many things had changed in himself in four years; and as for the man sitting at the desk, he too was quite a different person.

"All set to go?" Archer asked, finally lifting his eyes to give him his full attention.

At the beginning of their mission the question would have been spoken in a determined if tense tone of voice but by lips shaped into a smile; the frown that creased his Captain's brow now revealed a much less outgoing, more concerned, approach.

"Yes, Sir," Malcolm replied, his voice once again betraying rather more than he would have wanted. Talk of changes: when had he become so inept at hiding his feelings? His face muscles clenched. "We shall depart in about twenty minutes."

The green gaze gradually bore into him as Archer's eyes narrowed. The Captain got up and leaned back against the edge of the desk. "What is it?" he asked directly.

Malcolm stretched his neck uncomfortably, tightening his lips. It was stupid to bring this up now. He should have done so before, when he had first learnt of the mission and of the fact that Trip would be assigned to it. He had wanted to voice his concerns directly to the Engineer; but the man had been keeping him – like everybody else – at arm's length. And going to the Captain… that would have looked like he was acting behind Trip's back.

Well, now he was here and it was too late to deny the truth. Archer was too attuned to his senior officer's feelings to have any chance of successfully lying to him. Besides, he had lied to him once, and it hadn't been fun. He wasn't going to hurt them both like that again.

"Lieutenant?"

"I am… slightly concerned about Commander Tucker, Sir," Malcolm said, forcing himself to hold his C.O.'s probing eyes.

Archer's mobile features immediately reflected his soul, becoming almost pained, and Malcolm felt compelled to shift his gaze away; but after a moment he felt equally compelled to return it to the other man.

"I am just wondering if he doesn't need more time to recover from… his loss, before getting involved in a mission of this sort, Captain," he added, finally making a clean breast.

Archer's brow furrowed. "Are you saying you're worried he might not be up to it?"

Malcolm swallowed uncomfortably. "We don't know how dangerous this mission might prove, and…" He faltered. Briefly closing his eyes, he admitted hoarsely, "I don't quite know what I'm saying, Sir. It's just that… the Commander hasn't been himself since his daughter's death." He studied Archer for a reaction to his words.

Heaving a breath, the Captain broke eye contact and went to the porthole. He raised an arm and propped it against the bulkhead, leaning his forehead on it and looking down at the planet they were orbiting.

"Trip's been through a lot," he said thoughtfully. "It's only natural he wouldn't be the same as before." He paused. "But the Doctor has declared him fit for duty. I can't disregard that. I would wrong him if I did; besides, I think the best thing for him right now is to live as normal a life as possible. That includes going on away missions, even dangerous ones."

"I'm sorry, Captain," Malcolm muttered, feeling torn. "You are probably right."

"Probably?" Archer turned to face him again. "Malcolm, if you are not comfortable going on a mission with Trip, I want to know it."

Malcolm felt his knot tighten some more. On what grounds could he ask his Captain to keep Trip on Enterprise? A vague feeling of unease? What right had he to burden his friend with yet more troubles? For Trip would undoubtedly suffer if Archer revoked his assignment to this mission at the last moment.

"No, Sir. It's fine," he replied firmly, holding the green eyes.

Archer studied him for another long moment; then nodded. "Be careful down there, Lieutenant."

Some things, even after four years, had not changed an iota: namely Archer's fatherly concern for his crew.

"Yes, Sir," Malcolm replied. Forcing a smile, he added, "Trust me, Captain, I'm planning on bringing us back in one piece."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

The shuttlepod dropped from Enterprise's belly into the dark embrace, giving its passengers that moment of weightlessness which invariably made Malcolm's stomach churn.

Shrouded in its characteristically veiled atmosphere, the planet loomed large and bright in front of them, a magnetising view. Malcolm kept his gaze on the milky sphere till his stomach settled again; then turned his attention to his console.

"Shuttlepod Two to the Bridge," Trip said, his fingers tapping away at the commands.

"Archer."

"We are on our way, Capt'n. Be crossing the thermo barrier in approximately seventeen minutes."

"Acknowledged." There was a pause. "Good luck."

Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm saw Trip partially turn to shoot him a look, and shifted his eyes to meet it. "Thanks," the Engineer said, lifting his eyebrows.

For a moment Malcolm felt the old Trip was back. Then the man cut the communication, both with the Bridge and with him, turning back to his instrument panel and returning to the quiet mood that made him such a different man these days.

Malcolm licked his lips to steady himself. "This place we're going to – Troxia," he said casually. "I trust you've read what the Vulcan database says about it and the lovely people who inhabit it."

"Yeah, I did my homework, don't worry," was the wry reply.

"Corrupt, deceitful, ready to turn a blind eye on shady dealings and suspicious characters," Malcolm continued, ignoring his friend's tone. He let out a mirthless huff. "Indeed, just the place where someone might try to sell stolen Warp Engine blueprints."

"We don't even know for sure that anyone will," Trip muttered. "Whatever Soval might claim, the Vulcans don't really have anythin' specific in their hands."

Malcolm bit his lip. What Trip was saying was true. Vulcan Intelligence had no real evidence that the stolen Starfleet blueprints of the Warp-6 Engine under development had found their way to this planet. What they had passed on to Starfleet Command were only inklings. And his own Section 31 contact, Harris, hadn't been able – or perhaps hadn't wanted – to be of any help. But underestimating the mission and lowering their guard was only going to make things more dangerous.

"Certainly the fact that one needs a scanner to tell a Human from a Troxian would make the place appealing to a criminal from Earth who wanted to carry out illicit business," he replied thoughtfully. "In any case, we'll be wise to watch our backs."

There was no reaction and Malcolm frowned. Trip was so damn detached these days. Numb, perhaps, was the better word.

"Are you all right?" he heard himself asking, tentatively. Where that had come from, he didn't know. Or rather, he did: his guilty subconscious. He silently kicked himself. He had had weeks to ask that question. This wasn't exactly the right place and moment to be enquiring after Trip's well-being.

Half-turning again, Trip shot him a look. "Sure," he said quietly, a hint of something entering his voice. "Don't need to worry about me, Malcolm."

Perhaps it was the unexpected warmth in his friend's voice; but Malcolm felt a sudden surge of feeling, which overflowed in an unplanned confession. "I… haven't really been there for you these weeks," he said, the words spilling out haltingly. "I am sorry. But I… well; you probably needed some room."

Trip's back stiffened. "It's ok. There is nothin' anyone could do," he replied, raw pain filtering through the tense words. "No point wastin' time talking."

Malcolm's heart clenched. This wasn't Trip; not the Trip who had gradually taught him to confide in friends. But then again, Trip had a way of dealing with grief that went against his own teachings, he mulled, remembering his friend's reaction to the death of his sister. "Keeping things inside can hurt," he said. This was ridiculous – Trip having to be told something like that, and by none less than himself. "Once we're back, if you ever…"

"Send me those landin' coordinates, Lieutenant," Trip cut him off sharply – in more than one way. "We're approachin' the thermo barrier."

Malcolm heaved an inner sigh. "Aye, Sir."

* * *

Archer sat at his desk with his elbows propped up and his face buried in his hands.

_I'm sorry, Captain. You are probably right. Probably right..._

Malcolm's words were still going through his mind, taunting him. He considered himself a good Captain; a competent Officer who was able to make difficult decisions even when they involved a certain amount of risk for his crew. He still believed it, just as he still believed Trip ought to be on that away mission. He needed him there. But he couldn't shrug off the unease of knowing that, despite his final assurance, Malcolm had had qualms about that decision. The Lieutenant's loyalty to Trip had certainly convinced him against making a case out of his doubts.

There was a chirp. Archer let his hands drop from his face and opened a channel to the Bridge. "Yes."

"I have Admiral Gardner, Sir," Hoshi's voice said.

"Thank you, Ensign. Put him through."

Squaring his shoulders, Archer met rather tired-looking eyes staring back from his monitor.

"Admiral. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon."

"Soval has contacted me once more," Gardner came straight out, "It appears Vulcan Intelligence might have gathered another piece of information." The admiral looked Archer in the eye and sighed. "Not that it's one hundred percent certain, mind you. Just like the rest. But Soval seemed inclined to give it credit."

"What kind of information?"

"A species in the quadrant is rumoured to be looking for a shortcut to a higher warp factor than the 4.0 they have achieved so far. They may be close to entering a conflict with a neighbouring planet and want the advantage."

"I see," Archer commented pensively. "Who are they?"

"Fende…" Gardner glanced at a paper in front of him. "Fe-_ren_-dellians. You'll find them in the Vulcan database."

Archer nodded. "Any progress on discovering who stole the blueprints?"

"No." Gardner pursed his lips. "We are still passing all those who worked on the Warp 6 project through the sieve."

"Why would someone want to sell – or buy, for that matter – a partially developed engine?" Archer wondered.

Gardner lowered his gaze. "For one the W6 is a further development of your father's engine; its blueprints contain a lot of information on its predecessor," he said, lifting his eyes again. "A good engineer would be able to extract that. And…" He hesitated a moment. "This is confidential, Jonathan, but the W6 is at a very advanced stage. Ready to be tested, in fact."

Archer let out a low whistle. "I didn't realise…" he began.

"Not many people do," Gardner cut him off. "As I say, it's confidential information. Keep it to yourself."

"Aye, Sir," Archer replied, regaining his composure.

"Have Tucker and Reed left yet?"

Archer suppressed a grimace of concern. "Yes, Admiral. About twenty minutes ago."

There was a pause.

"Keep me informed," Gardner finally said, before signing off.

Archer watched the Starfleet logo on his monitor for a moment; then blew out a slow breath and pressed the comm. link open.

"T'Pol, could you please join me?"

* * *

It had been ridiculously easy. Malcolm smirked, pleased yet annoyed – as any Security Officer worthy of that title should – that no one had bothered to ask them so much as their names. They had settled the pod down in a landing area where vessels of different sizes and shapes were parked, locked it, and walked away without a question from air traffic controllers, authorities or the area's personnel.

"Wonderful place," Malcolm muttered sarcastically under his breath as they went through a low, airport-like building. "A paradise for smugglers. Anyone can get in – and, I suppose, out. No questions asked."

"What are you complainin' about?" Trip murmured back. "Would you rather they threw us against a wall and searched us?" His hand rested briefly though meaningfully on the phase pistol hidden under his sweatshirt.

Malcolm shot Trip a warning look; then returned to visually scan their surroundings. Troxians were, indeed, uncannily human-like. A bit on the tall side, which made him slightly self-conscious; but on the other hand, from what he could see, blond heads were scarce.

"Looks like our choice of clothin' was ok," Trip mumbled.

Dark colours seemed to be the fashion, making Malcolm's black jeans and leather jacket, and Trip's grey pants and brown bomber jacket the perfect camouflage.

"Yes. T'Pol's information was correct," Malcolm absentmindedly replied. The name had hardly left his lips that he sensed Trip tense up beside him.

Malcolm bit the inside of his cheek. He might have not been there for Trip in the past few weeks, but neither, he knew, had T'Pol. The Vulcan Officer's way of grieving had taken the form of lonely meditation; and on duty she had almost returned to be the T'Pol of their early days. Malcolm had watched helplessly as Trip had suffered first the loss of his daughter, and then the loss of the woman he loved. Or he thought he loved. The relationship between the two had never been very clear. Well, so much more the reason to have been there for him.

They came to the building's exit, and with a couple of quick steps Malcolm preceded his friend to it.

"The _joint_ where the deal is _supposed_ to take place is miles from here, Lieutenant," Trip said dryly. "And who exactly are you goin' to protect us from? We have no clue what they look like."

Malcolm stepped outside and scanned their surroundings. "My eye is trained to catch things you'd overlook, Commander," he replied. "Let me do my job."

Trip came up beside him. "Could at least have chosen a planet with better weather," he ranted. "Cloudy eight days out of ten is not my favourite climate."

Malcolm let his mouth curve up in a wry smile. "You'd think people leaving under such overcast conditions would make their society a bit more colourful," he commented.

It was drizzling rain; a very fine sprinkle. The sky was grey, the people were grey, buildings were grey. It made for a depressing sight.

Trip took out a padd and switched it on. "It's that way," he said, jerking his chin in the right direction. "About four miles. A bit of a walk."

"We don't have much choice in the matter, unless you know what public transportation to use, or want to steal one of those hovering vehicles and try flying it without crashing it at the first bend in the road."

Trip sighed. "Come on." He furrowed into his jacket and led the way, stepping onto the sidewalk.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

§ 3 §

T'Pol raised her hand to the chime and pressed. Her hand was steady, she noticed, and if it weren't an emotion she would have admitted to herself that she was pleased. Meditation had helped her; the deep, advanced level she had practised after… a sudden shiver shook her as the image of her baby flashed through her mind. A knot formed in her throat. Fortunately, before she could lose some of the control she was working so hard to keep these days, Archer's voice rang out, anchoring her to the present.

"Come in."

The door swished open. "Captain," T'Pol simply said, entering. She latched her hands behind her back and waited.

Archer slowly turned from the porthole to face her.

Meeting his sympathetic green eyes T'Pol had to make another effort to control her features, threatened by one of those swelling waves which lately seemed to surge within her, unbidden, at the most unexpected times. This man, even more than Trip, for some reason appeared able to provoke them. It was as if his gaze could expose every secret of her soul. But perhaps not only of hers. Captain Archer led his ship and crew with his heart as much as with his intelligence. Nothing, in the emotional sphere, went by him unnoticed.

"T'Pol," he said. "I just spoke to Admiral Gardner." Concern rang clear in his voice, and she knew this time it wasn't for her well-being.

"Captain?" she repeated, shaping the word into a question.

He took a step towards her. "I need you to dig through the Vulcan database and pull out everything you can find on a species called _Ferendellians_. According to Vulcan Intelligence, they might be interested in the W6 blueprints."

T'Pol nodded. "Their name is familiar. Will there be anything else?" she enquired softly, when Archer kept his gaze on her.

He looked about to say something, but then thought better of it, for with a slight frown he replied, "No, that will be all, thank you. Do it quickly, though. We need to inform Trip and Malcolm."

Concern snaked through her. She nodded again and left, wondering how it was possible that her life had got to this point. She had been assigned to a Human vessel to show them the ways of logic, and here she was now, four years later, almost having to re-learn the Vulcan ways herself. What had happened was entirely her fault. She had wanted to explore emotions, had wandered too close to the flame and had ended up being burnt. What was worse, she had ended up hurting another person in the process. It was better for both their sake if she made every effort to return to be the T'Pol she had once been.

* * *

They walked for about fifteen minutes in silence, Malcolm busy trying to memorise as much as he could of their surroundings while he watched out for anything that might seem out of the ordinary. Beside him, Trip too was scanning the environment, but Malcolm could tell his friend's curious nature had asserted itself and the man was looking around less with an investigative than tourist-like eye. Despite their mission, Malcolm was almost glad about it. Perhaps - he willed himself to hope - Trip would slowly find himself again.

They had switched on their U.T.s to pick up bits of conversation as they walked along the straight boulevard – judging by the hellish traffic on it one of the city's arteries – heading towards the northern suburbs. The devices, though, hadn't been put to too much use so far. People in this city didn't seem to like socialising. From what they could tell, Troxians mostly kept to themselves, hurrying along their way, absorbed in their occupations. Well, in a way it wasn't surprising: if what the Vulcan database said about them was true, people here minded their own business. In fact Trip and Malcolm hadn't been spared a glance, for which, actually, Malcolm was quite grateful.

Another ten minutes went by, and it became obvious that they had left the city centre, for the tall if rather minimalist buildings had – a little abruptly, by Earth standards – been replaced by smaller structures, and the traffic was less frantic. It was a good thing that the fast hovering vehicles used on this planet didn't make much noise, for there certainly were a lot of them around.

"Not what I'd call an upmarket part of town," Malcolm commented under his breath, taking in the shabby shops and businesses, and unkempt streets. He passed a hand through his hair, combing back a few damp strands. The very fine rain was still falling, and despite their somewhat waterproof jackets, they were both getting wet. At least it wasn't cold.

"A real dump."

Trip, as usual, hadn't minced his words.

Buildings were built close to each other. Very narrow, mostly deserted alleys fanned out from the main, larger street they were walking on. People all seemed to keep to this road, as if afraid to stray from it. As a matter of fact - Malcolm cast an eye into a dirty and stinking lane on their right - he wouldn't want to have to go very far into any of the side streets. They all looked like perfect sets for a Jack-the-ripper type murder.

"Let me gaze into your eyes, young man, and things will change."

Malcolm jerked his head back to see a thin, strange-looking man walking alongside Trip. He was of an age he'd have a difficult time guessing – although he didn't look old – and wore a dark green tunic-like jacket and a short cylindrical hat worn low on his forehead. Malcolm's heart jumped in his chest, and he silently cursed. Where in the bloody hell had the bloke come from?

He quickly stepped to the other side, leaving the man in the middle. "Thank you, Sir," he said in a low, determined voice, "But we really have no time for this at the moment. We are running late."

"Business can wait – a soul might not have that luxury." The man turned his skinny, angular face to Malcolm, fixing piercing eyes on him. They were a strange reddish-brown colour, not unattractive, nor unkind. He tilted his head and the hint of a smile appeared on his face.

"Ah, an intriguing blue-grey," he said mysteriously. "Yes, indeed…" He turned back to the other side. "But your eyes…" He peered into Trip's, who looked back with a frown. "Yours are most interesting. They have the glint – or rather, they have lost it."

"Sir," Malcolm repeated darkly, restraining himself from grabbing the man by an arm. "I said we have no time for this." His hand went to the comforting bulge under his jumper.

The man ignored him. He had locked gaze with Trip, and no one else might as well have existed for him – actually, for either man, Malcolm realised with a start.

"Things will change, sorrows will pass. Let me gaze into your eyes," the soothing voice repeated.

Malcolm didn't hesitate. He grabbed the man's arm and jerked him physically away from Trip.

The Engineer stopped. A confused expression came over his face. "Go away," he told the guy after what looked like a moment of indecision.

The man studied him, his face still shaped, unexpectedly, into a kind expression. "Your heart needs healing: why will you not allow it to happen?"

"Let's go," Malcolm urged under his breath, touching Trip's elbow. They started walking away.

"The abyss will swallow you, young man. It's closing up on you; I saw it in your eyes…"

Malcolm felt his friend tense up beside him and, glancing, saw a pained expression come over his face. Trip stopped and turned, forcing Malcolm to do the same.

A smile that could only be described as sad appeared on the stranger's lips. "You would be very unwise to let this occasion go by," he said gently.

"Commander…" Malcolm murmured for Trip's ears only, touching his elbow again, but Trip shrugged him off and took a couple of steps back, towards the strange character.

"What would you know about anyone's heart?" he enquired darkly.

"You are not from here, are you?" the man replied with narrowed eyes. "Or you wouldn't ask."

Malcolm felt his muscles clench. He didn't like the question; this was getting dangerous. Even assuming the strange person was only a trickster, they couldn't afford to blow their cover and reveal the fact that they were alien to this place. Before Trip could reply, he stepped in front of him. He put a hand on the man's chest and pushed him against a wall, holding him there.

"We only want you to leave us in peace," he said dangerously, casting a look around. People went by, minding their own business, as if nothing were happening.

"All right," the man replied, raising his eyebrows. "It's your loss," he added, shifting his gaze and refocusing it behind Malcolm.

Malcolm felt a hand on his shoulder pulling back firmly. "Enough," Trip said in his command tone. "Let him go."

Releasing his prisoner, Malcolm turned to cold blue eyes. For a couple of seconds he and Trip just stared at each other; then the man's movement, as he stepped out of the uncomfortable spot, broke the moment. They both turned to him, and he gave them a shallow bow, looking surprisingly unperturbed.

"I wish you to find the peace you need," he murmured, looking Trip straight in the eye. Then he turned and walked away.

Malcolm swallowed what little saliva he could find in his mouth. It had all happened in no more than a minute, a minute and a half, and adrenaline was still coursing freely through his veins. He glanced at Trip, and his friend met his gaze briefly; too briefly for Malcolm to read the many layers of emotion in it.

"Let's move," Trip muttered. "We still have a long way to go." He started walking.

Malcolm heaved a calming breath, which did nothing to undo the knot in his gut, and hurried after him.

* * *

Clapton filled his glass again and turned it in his hands, peering peevishly at the colourless liquid inside. "It's almost as innocuous as water," he complained to the man sitting in front of him.

"I, for one, am grateful for it," the man muttered. "I know you too well to want a bottle of alcohol anywhere near you. I want you awake when our contact arrives."

"You know, Sullivan," Clapton commented sarcastically, wiping a sleeve across his sweaty brow, "You're as dull as a grey November day. No alcohol, no women, no good food. No excitement in your life."

Sullivan's dark eyes didn't stop scanning the locale as he replied, unruffled, "Plenty of it, on the contrary. I was the one who got us this deal, remember? And my lifestyle may be a bit on the restrained side but look where yours got you: you're so overweight that just sitting still has you sweating like a pig."

Clapton's jaw jutted out giving the man a murderous expression. "My looks are a lot healthier than yours," he retorted venomously. "At least I don't look like the x-ray of myself." After a pause he continued, in a more subdued voice, "I hope this _deal _of yours comes through, because I already have a few plans on how to use my part of the gold."

"Yes, I do hope that too." Sullivan turned to the fat and rubicund face before him. "So our brief but still unpleasant partnership can be dissolved."

A wicked smile appeared on Clapton's lips. "Well, too bad you didn't know anyone else who could get you a ride to this God-forsaken planet, then, huh?"

"Yes, it was quite unfortunate."

Sullivan leaned back in his chair. The club was emptying. They had come to it for three days, and by now he knew that people flocked out after a certain hour. He bit his lip, trying to quench his impatience. He was sure the deal would come through. It was only a matter of waiting. Indeed he was eager; especially for the moment he could give Clapton _his_ _part_.

* * *

"Short and sturdy; golden complexion; straight, blondish hair; dark green eyes; tattoo-like designs on the side of their noses," T'Pol recited. "Ferendellians are said to be physically strong, quite skilled in hand-to-hand combat," she continued in a voice she kept low to hide the barely perceptible waver of concern in it. "All this information is not first-hand, Captain. Vulcans never made contact with this species."

"It will have to do. Thank you. I will contact Trip and Malcolm right away."

Archer nodded his dismissal, but T'Pol didn't move.

Whatever bond there had been between herself and Trip was no longer there; their daughter's death had affected them both deeply but in ways that were too different, and which had driven them apart. However, T'Pol wanted him to come back to the ship unharmed. Lieutenant Reed too, for that matter. She had read all there had been in the Vulcan database on the Ferendellians, including the very last footnote. And that, precisely, had contained an interesting piece of information.

"T'Pol?" Archer enquired. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, Captain, but this is only an unverified rumour: the eyesight of Ferendellians might be severely impaired by darkness. To the point that they are said to turn virtually blind. I believe you ought to mention this to Lieutenant Reed." She schooled her features, which were far too mobile these days. "And to Commander Tucker," she forced herself to add.

"I will," Archer said softly.

The tone of his voice told her that if she stayed here a moment longer he would enquire after her well-being. She appreciated his concern, but didn't want that right now. So she nodded and left, this time without waiting for his dismissal.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

§ 4 §

Trip was striding purposefully ahead, his longer legs forcing Malcolm to walk at an uncomfortable pace. He hadn't said a word after that strange man had finally left, and with every step Malcolm could feel the barrier between them getting higher. Invisible but sturdier than a brick wall. Malcolm knew from experience what an invisible barrier could do to a relationship, and the last thing he wanted was for that to happen between himself and Trip. He had to do something to prevent it. Besides, he already had to worry about possible enemies; he didn't want having to worry about a friend as well.

"Trip," he called warily, receiving a questioning side glance. "You all right?"

Trip snorted. It was a sound fraught with sarcasm. "Twice in the space of a few hours," he commented wryly without stopping. "Are you concerned about _me_ or about my ability to help you in this little mission of ours, Lieutenant?" His voice wavered in rhythm with his steps.

Malcolm felt his chest constrict with guilt. Trip might have a point; why was he finally asking just now? He opened his mouth to say something – what exactly he didn't know – but the other man beat him to it.

"I'm sorry," Trip mumbled, passing a hand over his face.

"No, you're right," Malcolm croaked out. Damn it, but in a way he was.

Trip caught him by an arm and stopped them abruptly, turning Malcolm to face him. "No. Look, I'm sorry, ok?" He blinked, trying hard to hide his turmoil and failing. "Just… don't ask, because I can't --" Trip cut himself off, either unable or unwilling to say more.

There was an awkward pause. "Are we almost there?" Malcolm enquired, deciding a change of subject was for the best. Or perhaps cowering out of a spot he felt was too tight.

Trip heaved a breath, regaining control, and dug his hand in the pocket of his jacket, producing his padd. He switched it on and consulted it. "Almost. A few more blocks."

They resumed walking, blessedly at a more normal pace. The rain had finally stopped, but grey clouds hung low, and the humidity was high. It was almost dark, and lights were coming on in the houses and on the streets.

Trip's communicator suddenly chirruped. Malcolm jerked his chin towards one of those dubious yet conveniently deserted alleys they kept passing, and they swerved into it, stopping a couple of meters inside.

"Tucker."

"Trip, I have a possible buyer," Archer's voice said. "A species called Ferendellians. Short, sturdy, golden skin, blond hair, tattoos on the side of their noses."

"Another bit of info courtesy of our Vulcan friends?"

Malcolm wondered if Trip's sarcasm was a consequence of his bitterness towards T'Pol.

"Soval is only trying to help, Commander," Archer's voice floated back, a shade darker than before. "He's under no obligation to do so. Keep that in mind."

Trip winced under the reproach. "Aye, Sir."

"Ferendellians are skilled fighters, so watch out. T'Pol also tells me they are said to turn virtually blind in dark conditions - mind you, that's not verified."

"Acknowledged, Capt'n," Trip replied, looking at Malcolm, who nodded.

"Everything ok?"

Trip shot Malcolm another glance, this one slightly self-conscious. "Yeah."

"Captain," Malcolm jumped in, "We are almost at the supposed meeting place. Unless something of vital importance comes up, it would be wise to observe comm. silence."

"Understood." There was a pause. "We'll wait for word from you, then."

"Aye, Sir," Trip said. "Tucker out."

* * *

Sullivan glanced at the watch. Soon the place would close. Another day had gone by without news from their supposed contact. Great. Clamping down hard on his impatience, he reminded himself that his Starfleet mole had assured him the alien would come. He only had to wait. If at least he hadn't been forced to let Clapton in on the deal, waiting would be much more bearable. The man was a real swine. But he had needed a fast and unobtrusive lift to this damn planet, and Clapton had friends in the cargo-ship business; he had obtained them a free ride in that bucket of rusty bolts that…

Sullivan's muscles clenched as the door opened to let two men in. New faces; he'd never seen them at this bar or in the neighbourhood. His hand went automatically to the hidden pouch, under his sweater, where he kept the padd. with the stolen blueprints. Just beside it, was the reassuring form of a pistol; might not be latest model, but as long as it delivered its pills…

"Those two?" Clapton wondered.

Sullivan shifted his gaze long enough to shoot him a poisonous look. "Keep your voice low, you idiot." He turned to study the newcomers again. "No," he whispered. "Our contact is alien. Those two look like Troxians."

As Troxians went, actually, one was a bit on the short side. The other was blond, which was the right colour of hair, but his complexion was pale, not golden; and he didn't have any tattoos on the side of that funny, sharp-sloping nose of his. He narrowed his eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about the two.

The short, dark-haired man climbed down the few steps of the staircase that lead into the bar, and stopped, looking around. Their eyes met briefly as the man scanned the room, and Sullivan shifted his away, trying not to do so too quickly. He turned to look out of the small windows that gave onto the street, following the two men's movements out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, they made their way to a table in the opposite corner of the room.

Something bothered him. He didn't like the way the short man had looked around. He glanced at the watch again; only half an hour now till the bar closed.

"Come on," he said in a low voice to his partner. "We'll come back tomorrow."

Before the man could say anything in reply, he got up and went to pay for their drinks. Then he left the place at a studiously leisurely pace, followed by Clapton.

* * *

"What can I get you?" the barman slurred, shuffling up to Trip and Malcolm's table.

He looked as run down as his locale, and the idea of drinking _anything_ in this place set Malcolm's stomach roiling.

"What d'ya have?" Trip enquired, sliding forward in his chair. Malcolm leaned back in his and passed a hand through his damp hair. It was good to be sitting down after walking miles, mostly under the rain.

The man looked at them as if they were, indeed, alien; then gave a sigh. "Te-kara, Gwa-kara, Reed-kara, Ale…?" He smirked. "Unless you guys prefer an herbal infusion..." Breaking into a mocking smile, he bared two rows of yellowish teeth.

"I would be tempted to try the _Reed_-kara…" Trip began.

Malcolm shot him a warning look and watched as a ghost of the old Trip flashed across his friend's features.

"But I think I'll go for a glass of Ale," he concluded.

The barman shifted his gaze to Malcolm, who nodded his assent. "One for me too."

After the man had shuffled away, Trip let out a soft snort. "Didn't know your family distilled _kara_ – whatever that is," he commented in a quiet voice.

Malcolm let his mouth curve up. He welcomed the teasing; anything but those long silences which didn't suit Trip in the least. While he reached for his scanner he replied just as quietly, "I wouldn't be surprised if some Reed distilled some liquor at some point in history. But I seriously doubt _any_ Reed would ever want their liquor sold in such a hovel."

The place was fairly large but shabbily furnished, dimly lit and dirty. And it obviously attracted a clientele that went accordingly.

Trip's eyes made a tour of the room. "Looks like the ideal place for carrying out shady business," he replied.

He looked about to add something, when the barman came back with two rather large tankards, which he put down on their table with as much grace as an elephant. Malcolm hid his scanner from view.

"It'll be sixteen drucks," the barman said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Trip's pissed-off expression came over his face. "What – are you afraid we'll run out without payin'?"

The man, a broad-shouldered fellow, uncrossed his arms and leaned with both of his big hands on the table, looking Trip straight in the eye. "Wouldn't be the first time," he murmured darkly. "I've never seen you guys before. I do not trust strangers. It's a policy that has served me well."

Without shifting his gaze away from the cold eyes boring into him, Trip reached into his pocket for some bills, and Malcolm crossed his fingers that the counterfeit money wouldn't arouse the man's suspicions.

"Sixteen drucks," Trip said deadpan, slapping two ten bills on the table.

The barman straightened up and smiled his heinous smile again. "I'll get you your change."

"Why don't you keep it?" Trip replied mellifluously. "As down payment for the next round."

A colourful curse of Royal Navy fashion went through Malcolm's brain. No way was he going to have a second drink in this pigsty. He wasn't even sure he wanted to taste the first one.

"The bar closes in half an hour."

Trip smiled. "We might come back again tomorrow, provided we like your Ale."

The man looked at them for a moment; then shrugged. "As you wish. My Ale's as good as anyone else's."

No questions asked. Indeed. After he had left, Malcolm dared cast a quick look inside his tankard. "I hope the scanner pronounces it unfit for consumption," he muttered, returning to look around.

There was a moment of silence, as Trip got his own scanner and unobtrusively checked. "Sorry," he eventually drawled. "The other good news is that it doesn't seem to contain very much alcohol."

"Do you consider that good n…" Malcolm cut himself off. His attention had been drawn by a couple of blokes who had suddenly got up and were leaving. He had briefly met the gaze of one of them as they had entered, and thought the man had averted his eyes a bit too abruptly.

"What is it?" he heard Trip enquire, voice tense.

"Probably nothing." He switched on his scanner and pointed it in the direction of the two, but they were already stepping out. "Two men just left, moments after we'd arrived."

Trip pulled his mouth in a lopsided smirk. "Aren't you being a bit paranoid?" he commented flatly. "The place is about to close up. Of course customers will be leavin'."

"Perhaps." Malcolm unobtrusively turned his scanner around. "No human biosigns," he muttered.

Paranoid – he mulled with an inward sigh – always the same story. Wincing, he put the instrument away and picked up his tankard. He supposed he'd have to drink at least a sip or two, if he didn't want to arouse suspicions. He hated to think how well they washed things in this place.

"Drink up, Lieutenant," Trip murmured, putting his Ale down. "It's not that bad."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

§ 5 §

T'Pol lit the last candle and settled herself, kneeling, in front of it. She closed her eyes and took in a deep, slow breath. Her perception of the outer world gradually dimmed, and she soon found herself in the white, cottoned surroundings that could give her so much peace. _Could _give her so much peace. Because lately peace, even in this dampened world, was a strenuous exercise to achieve.

Trip was no longer there to distract her; for which she was grateful. It was one of the consequences of them having drifted apart after the death of their daughter. It made it easier for her to try and concentrate. But whenever she reduced her level of consciousness anxiety would rise within her, oppression choked her, and she had to work hard to control them and reach a stage of meditation deep enough to allow her the respite she longed for.

She had never imagined the bond between a mother and her child could be so strong; she had never suspected she could grow so attached to an infant she had not carried in her womb, and that she'd miss her so dearly after knowing her for such a short time. Now more than ever she realised how dangerous emotions could be, and what painful wounds love could inflict. Now more than ever she longed to be a true Vulcan.

* * *

Leaning his head back against the wall, Trip drew his legs up and rubbed some warmth into his arms. It wasn't cold, but his clothes were still damp from the rain and he was beginning to feel a bit chilled.

After leaving the bar, he and Malcolm had decided to spend the night in one of the side streets, from where they could keep an eye on the place's entrance. The quarter had been deserted by then, and it had seemed like the best thing to do. Vulcan Intelligence claimed the deal was going to be made within twenty-four hours; they should not leave the bar out of sight, even during closing hours.

Trip glanced to his right at Malcolm. Hands hugging his elbows, one knee up, one leg stretched out in front, he had leaned his head back and was sleeping. Trip watched for a moment the rising and falling of his shoulders, envying his friend's state of unconsciousness. The words that strange guy had told him had sharpened the edges of his feelings again, leaving him deeply unsettled.

He himself had insisted they take turns and each get a bit of rest. Malcolm, of course, had wanted to take first watch, but Trip had known better than to let him. The man would probably pretend to have 'lost track of time' and allowed him to sleep all night. The whole crew treated him with kid's gloves these days, and it truly got on his nerves. It shouldn't, he knew. They were his friends; they were concerned about him. But he was a grown-up man. He could take care of himself. He'd deal with his grief without anyone's help. He had survived the pain of losing his sister; he'd…

_Survive…_

An image of his child struggling to survive flashed through his mind and the wound in his heart suddenly felt so raw again that he had to bite his lip not to moan out in misery.

Elizabeth, his daughter, had been small, innocent, fragile, and so beautiful. Why would anyone want to use an innocent creature in that cruel way? She had been his child, carried some of his genes. She had been _her _child too. She could have been a bridge between them, someone to unite them forever. Her death, on the contrary, had only pulled them apart. It had made him realise he could not spend his life loving someone who was so different from him, who pushed emotions aside. Emotions were what made him the man he was. If she could not accept them, he could not see how she could accept _him_.

He had longed to cry on her shoulder, and feel her tears soak his; he had needed to share the agony of his heart with the only person who would truly know what torture it was like to lose your own flesh and blood; but she had not let him. She would not let the hurt show; she only wanted to exorcise it by clamping down on it, and he had finally come to understand how impossible it would be for him to be the life companion of someone whose goal in life was to become… insensitive.

A sob escaped him, and he realised with a start that tears were rolling down his cheeks. Tears for his sister, and his daughter; tears for a love that could not be.

Malcolm stirred, raising his head abruptly. Damn the man and his light sleep. Just as abruptly Trip turned the other way, pretending not to have noticed, and wiped a quick sleeve over his face.

Silence stretched, which told Trip more than words could. Well, what did he expect? Last time Malcolm had asked him if he was ok, he'd bit his head off.

"Why don't you get some rest now," Malcolm finally croaked out, sounding so ill at ease that for some irrational reason Trip almost bubbled into a laugh; what the hell, he was beginning to be proud of his _illogical _nature. "I've slept more than enough," Malcolm added in that deep voice of his that was so telling.

"I doubt that," Trip murmured.

He clenched his jaw but tears were still streaming uncontrollably down his face and he kept it carefully averted, although he had no illusions he could hide his state from Malcolm for long. After a moment, in fact, a hand crept over his arm.

"Trip…"

The word sent a wave through him, for it held a small treasure, of the kind T'Pol wanted buried deep. Trip found he could no longer shut his friend out, and turned to eyes which, despite this planet's dark, moonless night, searched his very heart. He held them for a moment, riding a silence that for once meant more than words; then let himself be pulled by a tentative yet determined arm.

The shoulder he ended up soaking was not clad in a catsuit, but right then his overflowing soul couldn't have cared less.

* * *

Trip awoke with a start when something shifted under his head, and realised to his embarrassment that he was still leaning on Malcolm's shoulder. Apparently he had cried himself to sleep on it. He hadn't done something like that since he was six or seven years old, when his mother had lulled him to sleep after he hadn't made the baseball team.

Straightening up, he rubbed his swollen eyes; then turned to cast Malcolm a rueful glance.

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Sorry I moved and woke you," he muttered. "My arm was getting numb." He clenched and unclenched his hand, wincing.

He sounded embarrassed as well. No wonder; Malcolm was not big on shows of emotion, and Trip had been surprised, if grateful, by his unexpected gesture of comfort. He must have looked like shit to drive his friend to do something like that.

"No, I am sorry," he mumbled back. "Wasn't planning of usin' ya as a pillow…"

"Not a problem," was the quiet reply.

Well, crying himself to sleep had only served to give him a headache. Trip gave Malcolm a fleeting smile that was as fake as they got, for he still felt so damn miserable, and asked, "What time is it?" He glanced towards the bar. No one was around.

"Half an hour before dawn, I'd say."

Trip heaved a deep breath. He wasn't looking forward to the waiting that was still ahead of them. He wasn't in the mood for talking about his feelings, and silence would be awkward. Maybe a couple of minutes' walk would help him clear his mind.

"I need to stretch my legs," he muttered, pushing to his feet. "I'll take a short walk around."

"Commander, I don't know if it's such a good idea," Malcolm immediately said, the use of rank making his objection official.

Trip clenched his jaw in irritation. Like pain, it was never very far away, these days. "I'm only taking a _short_ _stroll_, Lieutenant," he said, in a voice so harsh that a part of his mind wondered to whom it belonged. "Unless you want me to answer nature's call here in front of you?" he added sarcastically.

Malcolm got up slowly and regarded him with tightly-pursed lips, looking annoyed as well. Letting his eyes grow cold, Trip held his gaze. He knew he was being a damn S.O.B., but life had given him too many kicks in the gut lately: gentleness had sunk to the very bottom of his heart, definitely out of reach.

Swallowing, Malcolm crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I don't like it, Trip," he said cautiously.

Trip heard his name and knew that Malcolm had used it to appeal, after the Officer, also to the friend.

"I'd prefer if…"

"Keep an eye on that bar, _Lieutenant_," Trip cut him off, making sure to remind him who was in command. "I'll be back in a few minutes." With a last meaningful, hard look, he turned his back and wandered out into the main street.

He walked for a while trying not to think. But there were far too many things about which not to think; last but not least how he had just treated a friend who had overcome his reserved nature to give him comfort. What the hell was going on with him? He'd have to apologise to Malcolm. Or maybe he wouldn't need to. Malcolm would understand. The man understood him; or so it had been up to now.

Before Trip knew it, he had walked a long stretch, lost in his thoughts. It was when he looked up and saw that the sky was beginning to lose its ink-like blackness that he realised he had been away longer than he'd intended. Cursing inwardly, he stopped in his tracks. Malcolm must be worried sick about him. He turned to hurry back, but his momentum was broken by the sight of a lonely figure a few meters away: it was the strange character they'd met the day before.

"I see you have not found the peace of the soul yet," the man said. As earlier, his voice was soft and gentle, and mesmerising.

Trip studied him. This guy intrigued him. How had he known about his troubles? Was there really a way he could make him forget? He had to know.

"What do you know about my – anyone's soul?" he asked warily.

"I told you. I read the eyes of people." The man took a few steps and, coming to stand in front of him, peered into his eyes. Trip felt riveted to the ground. "A… loss, I read a loss," he said in a veiled voice. "Am I right?"

Trip swallowed. "More than one, actually." He belatedly realised he had spoken the words aloud, but the man's gaze… Biting his lip, he broke eye contact. Malcolm was waiting for him… "I've got to go," he said, making as if to move.

"Yes, painful losses," the man spoke up in a hurry, stopping him. "She - there was a _she_, wasn't there? She was… unique… Yes, I can see that."

"What do you know about her?" Trip choked out.

"Let me help you ease the burden off your soul."

Trip lost himself in the guy's eyes. The voice was so soothing; the words so comforting… like cold water on burning skin.

"Come with me..."

The man took his hand and Trip let himself be led by the gentle touch and mellow voice. They stopped in a dark alley and the man placed his hands on the sides of his forehead and began chanting a low, droning melody. Trip's breathing almost immediately got deep and rhythmical as his eyelids sank low, too heavy for him to keep open, but his heart was beginning to feel so wonderfully light. As was his head. Trip fell with his back against the wall, strength seeping out of his body. He closed his eyes and all he knew was the comforting voice and his own lungs working in rhythm with it.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

§ 6 §

Peering out from the alley into the main street, Malcolm looked it up and down in both directions, desperate to spot the familiar figure of his friend and colleague, _bloody_ Commander Charles Tucker III. Morning had arrived, grey and overcast like the day before, and the street was getting populated with people again, but Trip was nowhere to be seen.

He should have never let him wander off alone, Malcolm berated himself. Especially after having seen just how fragile his friend was. Passing a nervous hand through his hair, he muttered a heavy curse he kept for special occasions. This one definitely warranted it. Three quarters of an hour had passed since Trip had not-so-tactfully reminded him that he was his superior officer and could do whatever the hell he chose; decided to take a _stroll_ in the middle of the night, on an alien planet, while on a mission; and left him alone.

Malcolm had tried hailing him but his call had not been answered, and his guts were now in knots, concern having finally stifled the anger that had rivalled for prime position in his chest. Something must have happened, and if it came down to choosing between accomplishing his mission and looking for his friend, he knew he would have to do the first even though he'd want to do the second.

The tension in his body was beginning to make his muscles ache, so Malcolm made an effort to relax. As he leaned once again past the corner of a building to scan the main street, he considered his options. He could contact Enterprise and ask them to locate Trip's biosigns. He smirked at the idea. Another transmission. He had already risked exposing their presence on the planet when he had used his communicator to try and page Trip. Plus he would have to inform the Captain of Trip's behaviour, which he wasn't too keen on. But the Engineer might be in serious trouble, and the most important thing was to get him back alive.

Pursing his lips, Malcolm reached for his communicator. "Reed to Enterprise."

"Lieutenant," Hoshi's voice said. "Do you want me to page you through to the Captain? He has already left the bridge."

Malcolm frowned. Of course, the alpha shift had ended. Enterprise's time was not synchronised with that of the planet. Hoshi must be working overtime.

"No… that won't be necessary."

Malcolm thought fast.

"Look, Hoshi, Trip and I separated, and he hasn't checked in with me in a while. Can you locate his biosigns?"

"It could take me a long time," Hoshi replied in a voice that was suddenly more serious. "You are in the middle of a densely populated area, not to mention that Troxian biosigns are not all that different from Human ones."

"Do what you can," Malcolm replied tersely. He had spotted the bar owner approaching, coming to open his locale. "But do not contact me. I will get back to you myself, when I can. Reed out."

Slipping his communicator away, Malcolm watched the man unlock the bar and disappear inside it. Ten minutes later the first two clients arrived: lo and behold, they were the same two men who had abruptly left after him and Trip had arrived. Something was definitely up with those two, although it might be something entirely unrelated to the W6 blueprints. Too bad he was too far to check their biosigns.

Malcolm's stomach complained. He had not eaten in hours. Not a wise thing to go into a possible fight running low on fuel. Leaning with a shoulder against the wall, he reached for a nutrient bar and began munching on it, still keeping both the bar's entrance and the street under close scrutiny.

One hour later, a blond head appeared. Unfortunately it wasn't Trip's: its owner was short and well-built, had a golden complexion and tattoos on the sides of his nose. Malcolm stood off the wall, swallowing past a sudden tightness in his throat. The alien entered the bar, and Malcolm felt his gut clench. Time to get down to business.

_Come on, Commander, where in the bloody hell are you?_

* * *

Hoshi was debating what to make of Malcolm's words. She had remained on the bridge past the end of her shift to run a system diagnostic because she thought she had seen a glitch, and the call had caught her by surprise.

The thing was she had heard an edge in Malcolm's voice that she knew was concern. There was no doubt the Lieutenant had been worried about Trip; and indeed he wouldn't have asked her to find Trip's biosigns, if he hadn't been concerned about him.

Hoshi concentrated once again on her monitor, as she had for the past ten minutes, trying to identify a human among the thousands of people in the area of town where Trip and Malcolm were. It could well take her hours.

She should tell the Captain, she thought for the umpteenth time. But Hoshi had sensed that Malcolm had not _wanted_ to speak to Archer.

What if she did tell the Captain: would she be exposing something? She didn't want to end up having Malcolm sent to the brig again because of something _she_ had uncovered. But her conscience would not leave her alone. So she steadied herself and reached for the comm. button.

"Sato to Captain Archer."

* * *

Adrenaline was having a field day in Malcolm's bloodstream. Not that he minded. He actually welcomed the rush of it when danger loomed ahead; it got him to that state of heightened alertness that might just save his life.

Heart thumping in his chest, he approached the bar entrance, casting a last look up and down the street. No signs of Trip. He pushed the thought of what might have happened to his friend forcefully aside and turned to the door. Right now he could do nothing for him and, most of all, could not afford to let his mind stray.

When Malcolm took the first step inside he had to stop a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the light - or, rather, to the lack of it. The day outside was grey, but still bright in comparison to this place. He suspected the owner liked to keep a dim atmosphere the better to let his customers carry out their dubious businesses. The day before, because they had been there at night, he had not noticed that the window glass was tinted a dark, golden yellow, which didn't allow much light to filter through.

Quickly climbing down the few steps, Malcolm immediately spotted the Ferendellian. His suspicions had been right: he was sitting with the two men that had arrived early in the morning, at the same table the two had occupied the night before, in a far corner of the room.

"All alone this morning?" the bar owner asked in a slightly mocking tone, from behind the counter.

Malcolm just gave him a smile, surprised at his own acting skills considering the way he felt inside. Then he walked to a removed table from which he could keep the three under control. He sat with his shoulders to the wall and cast a quick glance around, taking in and memorising the position of the other few customers.

Once again his eyes met those of the thinner one of the two blokes from the previous night, and once again the man averted them a bit too fast. There was no doubt he was on the alert.

Malcolm shifted his seat and deliberately turned his back to the man, feigning indifference. He had moved so as to face the counter: the panel behind it was made of some slightly reflective metal. It distorted images to a certain extent, but it was good enough for keeping an eye on the trio; still better than casting glances in the man's direction and arousing his suspicions.

"Beans' juice, or do you prefer something stronger first thing in the morning?" the barman asked while coming up to him, his smile almost as yellow as the tinted windows.

"Beans' juice will be fine," Malcolm replied with fake assurance. "Provided it doesn't cost more than the four drucks of credit we still have with you," he added, raising his eyebrows. He had suddenly remembered the man wanted to be paid up front and he didn't need a fistfight with this troglodyte right now. "My friend has all the money, and I'm not sure he'll join me this morning," he explained.

The barman narrowed his eyes. "Where in the grostel are you from?" he asked, keeping his voice unexpectedly low, as if to safeguard Malcolm's privacy, of all things. "Everybody on Troxia knows that a cup of beans' juice cannot cost more than two drucks at the most."

"Then I might even have two cups," Malcolm replied, tilting his head and fixing the guy with eyes that didn't match his innocent tone of voice.

The guy snorted softly. "I get it. No questions asked." Turning serious he added, "But remember: no brawls inside my bar. If you break something, I'll break your neck."

Brilliant. That's all he needed; having to worry about the place's owner. He probably kept a twin-barrel shotgun hidden behind the counter; like in those Westerns Trip liked so much.

The thought of Trip sent Malcolm's anxiety spiking again, and once more he forced his friend out of his mind, and his mind back to the present.

The two blokes and the Ferendellian seemed to be in deep conversation, all three leaning forward in their chairs. Malcolm reached for his scanner, and a moment later he had more tangible evidence that if he had to risk his life it was probably for a good cause – they were definitely discussing the Warp 6 project. Still, he waited, wanting to catch the three red-handed. Secretly wincing, he picked up the cup of _beans' juice_ he'd been brought – a dark liquid whose similarity to coffee seemed to stop at its colour – and brought it to his lips, pretending to take a sip. He hadn't even bothered to check if the drink was safe for consumption, for its smell alone would have discouraged a man stranded in the desert for a week.

Malcolm instantly knew his waiting had come to an end when a familiar-looking padd. suddenly appeared on the trio's table. He might not have a fine enough knowledge of warp theory to know exactly what he'd be looking at, once it was in his hands, but he was sure he was right about what the device contained: a few too many hints pointed in the right direction.

He had to act now, when the three were concentrated on their business and paying no attention to him. Drawing in a deep breath, Malcolm reached for his phase pistol. His hand closed around the familiar shape and he played the scene that was about to happen in his mind, as if it was a film he had already watched. A moment later, in one swift move he stood and swivelled, arms outstretched, weapon aimed at the three.

"Hands up."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

Trip cracked his eyes open and watched as the top of a building and a section of grey sky slowly came into focus. It wasn't long before his brain had figured out that he was lying on his back in a stinking side street. He jerked his head up; then, grunting, he slowly managed to get to a sitting position, back against the wall.

The world spun for a minute or two. When it finally stopped, Trip checked himself over: no injuries, but his counterfeit money was gone, as were his communicator, scanner, U.T. and phase pistol. Memories came rushing in, one on top of the other, and with them guilt so heavy that it made him gasp for air, stifling any emotion that might have been lingering from before. Breathing raggedly and grimacing against a budding headache, Trip pushed to his feet. If something had happened to Malcolm because of his damn stupidity… His body reacted to the thought of its own accord, and he took off at a run, saying a fervent prayer that he might still be in time.

Trip knew things were bad when, still at a distance, he saw people running out of the bar he and Malcolm had kept under surveillance. His lungs were burning, but he willed his legs to go faster: he could hear shots being fired from a projectile weapon, by the sound of it. At least he could hope it meant Malcolm was still alive.

As he approached the place's door Trip gradually slowed down, finally stopping in a crouch just outside it. "Malcolm," he shouted, finding barely enough breath in his lungs to do so. He passed a hand over his sweaty brow.

"Watch out, Commander," Malcolm's voice shouted back after a beat. "One man down; one armed in the far corner, left; and I lost sight of the Ferendellian, though I don't think he's..." The words were cut off abruptly by a crashing noise as of furniture being upturned, followed by sounds of fighting.

Dammit! Malcolm had probably given away his position with that warning. Trip dared a peek. A fat man lay in a pool of blood in the middle of the room, but right now all he cared for was his friend, who was engaged in hand-to-hand with someone - the alien, but the looks of him.

Trip cursed himself once more for letting himself be duped, which now left him without a weapon. He was about to jerk his head back to safety when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the bar owner stand up from behind the counter, a weapon of sorts trained on the two men fighting. Trip didn't need to think twice. He jumped up and flew in, leaping down the few steps. In a flash he was on him, just in time to divert his shot to the ceiling. With a well-landed punch, he sent the man crashing against the bottles lined on the shelves behind him; then, jumping over the counter, Trip placed a couple more hard blows, and the burly man slid to the floor, unconscious.

As he picked up the barman's weapon - it couldn't be so difficult to figure out - Trip heard Malcolm grunt. He cast a careful glance over the counter and saw his friend, on the floor, receive a hard kick to the ribs. Malcolm rolled away and took the legs from under his opponent, but he looked in trouble. Archer had told them Ferendellians were skilled fighters: it seemed no exaggeration. Reed was no beginner, but the alien was strong and seemed to be having the better of him. Trip pointed his stolen weapon; then, grimacing, lowered it again. The two were grappling now, and even if he'd had a more comfortable shot… he had never used this pistol; he'd be risking too much.

Hearing shifting on his left, Trip fired blindly in that direction; just to get the message across that no one would leave the bar without his consent. A beam of yellow light snaked out and hit a lamp, shattering it in a thousand pieces. Suddenly, Archer's voice echoed in his mind.

…_T'Pol also tells me they are said to turn virtually blind in dark conditions_ …

Hell, he might not want to risk shooting at the Ferendellian for fear of injuring Malcolm, but there would be no harm in trying to give his friend an advantage by doing some target hitting.

It took him a few shots to get used to the weapon's drift, but in a few minutes Trip was making good progress in shooting the lights out, one by one. Just as he hit the last one, a shadow took off on the left, from behind an upturned table. The man who had cowered in the far corner was trying to take advantage of the sudden darkness to make his escape. Trip instinctively stood up and pointed the weapon, firing.

Strange, his weapon had not made this much noise before.

The man tottered and Trip wondered why it was that he was swaggering as well. There was a dull pain in his chest: But he had shot first, and hit the man… Then why…? He took a few steps towards the light coming in from the open door, looked down at himself, and gagged: that stain on his chest … he put a hand to it and it came away wet. Trip's eyes went wide. It was getting hard to breathe. A moment later things got more than a bit hazy, and he collapsed to the floor.

* * *

Scampering on his hands and feet out of the way while the Ferendellian groped blindly about, Malcolm chanced upon the phase pistol that had been kicked out of his hand and blessed his luck. The red beam sliced the darkness like a bolt of lightning in the night and hit the alien squarely on one shoulder. A moment later all was silence, except for Malcolm's ragged breathing.

There just wasn't enough air in his lungs to move a finger. Malcolm wanted to collapse in a heap, and it took a gigantic effort to pick himself up from the floor and stagger towards the fallen Ferendellian. There was no doubt that 'stun' worked well on this species' physiology, as the alien was out cold. Grimacing against the pains and aches that sliced through his body with every breath, Malcolm bent to search the alien's pockets. It wasn't' long before he had found what he was looking for: a padd. which Trip would undoubtedly find very interesting. He turned to the door, looking for his friend. What he saw made his pounding heart miss a couple of beats: a familiar form was lying on his side at the foot of the stairs.

Malcolm managed somehow to take those few steps and drop on his knees near the fallen man, too spent and shaken to utter a sound. Breathless as he was, he felt like screaming. This couldn't be happening. With a hand that was trembling both from worry and exertion, he felt for a pulse, finding an unsteady one. He gently rolled Trip onto his back, and he fell limply. The light from the open door wasn't much, but more than enough to show Trip's heavily blood-stained front. Malcolm quickly raised Trip's sweatshirt, and bit down on his already cracked and bleeding lower lip. He hurried to place a hand over the wound, pressing down hard to try and staunch the bleeding. He was no doctor, but by the look of it there was no way the bullet could have missed the left lung.

"Trip," he choked out in worry and despair. To his surprise, Trip's eyes cracked open.

"Sorry," he mumbled, in a hardly understandable wheeze.

"Shut up, just _shut up_," Malcolm gasped out, as he himself fought to draw enough oxygen to keep his brain working. It wasn't easy, after the hell of a fight he had just sustained. And the warm blood seeping through his fingers was threatening to make him lose his hold on the few strands of clear thinking he still had.

"That strange… character… I…" Trip rasped. Unable to finish, he coughed and grimaced, blood trickling out of a corner of his mouth.

"Don't talk," Malcolm ordered darkly. But Trip's eyes went wide with the effort to speak instead.

"No... He… took advantage… stripped me clean... So damn... stupid…"

Malcolm clenched his jaw, hardly aware of the pain that lanced through it, and fumbled for his communicator.

"Reed to Enterprise."

"Archer," the Captain's tense voice immediately replied.

"The Commander is seriously injured. Requested his immediate transport," Malcolm croaked out in one breath. The voice could not be his, it sounded too calm and he was anything but that.

"Stand by."

Archer's voice was equally collected.

How could they both be so bloody professional, with a friend about to... No, he wouldn't go there.

"What about you, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm swallowed. "I'm staying, Sir. The blueprints are retrieved, but I still have some unfinished business to attend to." Before Archer could question him, he found enough breath to add, "There are two humans in this room. I'm afraid they are both dead. Lock on to their biosigns and transport them out as well. Reed out."

"Wh… what business?" Trip managed to mumble.

"Don't talk," Malcolm repeated, softly pleading this time, as he put away the communicator and placed the padd. with the W6 blueprints in Trip's hand.

He could no longer hold Trip's pained gaze; it was hard enough to feel him struggle to breathe under the hand he kept pressed on his wound. Silently hoping his friend would understand, he shut him out, closing his eyes to the blue ones that wouldn't leave him, and fired a muttered volley of foul words. Hopefully they wouldn't be the last thing Trip heard from him, but he had to blow out some steam or his thumping heart would likely explode.

At the last moment his befuddled brain remembered that he had to remove his hand from Trip's wound and move away. Just in time: a moment later, Trip de-materialised. Malcolm turned his bloodied palm up and looked at it unblinkingly.

It took him a moment before he found enough determination to move. Pushing with both hands on his knees, he staggered to a standing position and cast a look around. The Ferendellian was still unconscious. Well, he couldn't care less about him; let him go his own way. And he'd better leave too, before the bar owner came round and made good on his promise to break his neck: right now he didn't have enough strength for another fight. He climbed the stairs, groaning as every bone in his body complained, and stepped outside, a gritty look on his face.

He was sure he looked like hell, bloodied, bruised and dishevelled; people gave him a wide berth as they hurried on to attend their own business, barely sparing him a glance.

What a lovely place.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

§ 8 §

T'Pol approached the sickbay doors with what could only be classified as apprehension. Not even her Vulcan resolve could help her quench it, but it was already better than the near panic she had experienced when Trip had been transported on board.

She had known immediately that his injury was serious, had seen it on the Denobulan Doctor's face, usually so loath to betray his concern, as Phlox had urged his medics to carry off the gurney on which the unconscious Commander lay. T'Pol had wanted to follow him and Archer to the infirmary right away, but had been afraid of it; afraid that the circumstances and the Captain's emotions would be too much for her right now, and her control would shatter. She had exchanged what she knew was a horrified look with Archer, and watched him hurry after the group. She, instead, had gone to her quarters, to prepare herself for what might be another assault to her already weakened fortitude. But now she was here.

The sickbay doors opened and Archer came out. He must have seen her through the glass, standing still a few metres away.

"Phlox hasn't come out of surgery yet," Archer said hoarsely. His face was a mask of concern.

T'Pol nodded silently and averted her eyes, afraid to look too long into the Captain's gaze, so apt to make her Vulcan nature wobble.

"Are you ok?" she heard him ask, softly.

Blinking, she heaved a deep, calming breath. "Please, inform me of any news," she simply replied, relieved that her voice did not waver. Turning, she scampered back to the privacy and silence of her room.

* * *

"Sato to the Captain."

Archer stopped thumping his waterpolo ball nervously against the far wall and reached for the comm.

"Go ahead."

"Shuttlepod Two is docking, Captain."

"Thank you, Hoshi."

Dropping the ball on the bed, Archer got up abruptly and left his quarters.

He strode to the decon chamber and flung its door open without a flicker of hesitation, only hoping he'd not catch Malcolm in his skivvies - somehow he doubted the Lieutenant would appreciate help from his Captain to spread gel on his back. There were too many questions that needed answers to tiptoe around, and he just couldn't wait until Reed was declared 'clean'. If he ended up having to strip down and spend time in decon with his Armoury Officer, well so be it.

Reed was dressed, blessedly. He had his back to the door but turned at the sound of it opening, and Archer's facial muscles clenched. Malcolm was filthy, bloodied and dishevelled. The one-day stubble he sported on his face did nothing to cover the bruises that covered part of it; there was a cut on his forehead which was caked with dried blood, and his lower lip was split. Not the pristine Lieutenant Malcolm Reed that he was used to seeing around the ship.

"Captain," Malcolm mumbled, trying to straighten his posture, and Archer saw him wince. More bruises must be hidden from view, he realised.

"At ease, Lieutenant," he hurried to say, finding his voice.

Reed obeyed, but didn't seem to relax at all. "The Commander?" he asked in a deep voice, boring into Archer's eyes.

Archer held the man's gaze. It looked uncharacteristically brittle. "Survived surgery," he replied tensely, "But is still in critical condition."

Reed closed his eyes briefly; then blinked them open again. Archer watched the man closely, afraid to see him waver and collapse. But Reed pursed his lips and lowered his gaze, slowly beginning to empty his pockets: one phase pistol, another phase pistol; one scanner, a second one; two communicators; one U.T.

"I'm afraid I've lost a U.T., Sir," he croaked out, tired grey eyes shooting up ruefully for a moment.

Archer frowned. A lost U.T. was the least of his concerns. "What the hell happened down there, Lieutenant? Why did you and the Trip separate?" he enquired, keeping his voice as inflection-free as he could manage. "Report," he added.

He had spoken the word softly but saw Reed react to its official meaning by going through the routine of trying to stand straighter and flinching, and he had to stop himself from reaching out to grab the man by an arm and lowering him forcefully onto a bench. He restrained himself at the last moment, knowing the Lieutenant wouldn't appreciate that, and waited patiently.

There was a long pause. Malcolm averted his gaze, seemingly at a loss for words. When he finally shifted it back, he heaved a breath to speak but it caught in his throat, and he wrapped an arm around his midsection, making Archer wonder in what state the man's ribs were. As if on cue, a well-known but unnaturally subdued voice spoke.

"Welcome back, Lieutenant."

They both turned to Phlox, who was standing on the other side of the access hatch.

"Thank you," Malcolm choked out.

"Sorry I wasn't here when you docked; I was… occupied." Phlox smirked bitterly. "You haven't picked up any pathogens," he continued. "But I can see you are in need of my care. As you'll expect, I want to give you a thorough examination."

"In a moment, Doctor," Archer said, managing to funnel determination in a soft tone.

Phlox looked ready to object; but sighed and tilted his head. "Very well. I'll be waiting for you in sickbay, Mr. Reed."

The hatch closed and there was silence. Reed turned troubled eyes to Archer.

"Captain," he murmured hesitantly, "I…" He looked down at his blood-stained hands, turning the surviving U.T. in them, and swallowed. "I swore to myself that I would not lie to you again." He waited a beat before adding with a mirthless huff, "That time was painful enough, for both of us."

Archer felt a stab through his heart. Reed had re-awakened memories he wanted buried deep. That had been the lowest point in his career, a moment so dreadful that Archer almost equated it to his father's death: Phlox had been abducted; Reed had betrayed his trust and Trip had insisted to be transferred off his ship, offering no explanation. He had never felt so alone and defeated in his life; a feeling of failure he definitely wanted to forget. His mouth went dry but he kept his eyes trained on Malcolm, willing him to go on. Reed's gaze grew pained, and Archer could see it wasn't physical suffering.

"But today," the Lieutenant went on wearily, managing to hold his penetrating gaze, "I am strongly tempted to go back on that word."

Archer felt another stab, this one of concern. Ever since Hoshi had told him of Malcolm's strange call, he had suspected something had gone awry with Trip, and had felt a weight on his conscience for having sent the Engineer on the mission despite Reed's misgivings.

"Trip?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes, Sir." Malcolm's legs finally gave way, and he let himself slide down on a bench.

Archer looked at him and heaved a steadying breath. "I want the truth, Malcolm," he said firmly.

And Malcolm told him. He told him of a strange man and his promises; of Trip's desperate need to believe him; of his tears and of his disappearance. In a voice kept carefully level Reed told him of the fight in the bar and of Trip's timely intervention. And of how, after the Engineer had been transported on board, Malcolm had gone looking for that trickster, to retrieve all that he had stolen. He had found the man going through his enticing routine along the street where they had first met him – obviously his working territory. Malcolm confessed he had felt a desire to kill him for taking advantage of the suffering of another person. In the end, he'd only given him a good shake, got back their technology - whatever the man had not already sold - and left, too weary and concerned to inflict on the bastard the lesson he'd deserve.

Reed finished and closed his eyes, looking exhausted but marginally relieved at having unburdened his soul. Archer, who half-way through the report had slipped to sit on the bench across from him, leaned forward and put a hand on one of his legs, and Malcolm's eyes cracked open.

"Get to sickbay now," Archer said gently.

Malcolm didn't move. "Any idea who the two dead men are?"

"They're working on it, back on Earth," Archer replied, a hard expression coming over his face. "We sent samples of their DNA."

"What are you going to do, Captain?" Malcolm enquired warily. "If I may ask?"

Archer sighed. "You did warn me that you thought Trip was not ready for a dangerous mission, Malcolm," he replied straightforwardly. "Turns out I endangered both of your lives by disagreeing."

Reed jerked straighter, which elicited a groan and made him scrunch his eyes closed; he re-opened them a second later and there was dismay there. "In the end I said it was fine, Sir," he choked out past the pain. "And the Doctor had declared the Commander fit for duty. Surely there has got to be a way in your report to show that…"

"The responsibility for what has happened is only mine, Lieutenant," Archer cut him off, squaring his shoulders and using Malcolm's rank with purpose. "I will not hide behind an inventive report."

Malcolm flashed him a fiery look. "I wasn't suggesting that you _lie_, Sir. And if someone is at fault that is me. I should have come to you sooner, when…"

"Get to sickbay," Archer cut him off again, with gentle determination. "And that's an order."

He watched Malcolm flounder; then painfully pick himself up from the bench and leave without another word.

* * *

Sitting on a biobed while Phlox taped his ribs, Malcolm's eyes couldn't stray from the curtain enclosing Trip's bed.

He had abandoned his body, as if it no longer belonged to him, into the Doctor's care, for once not even bothering to look whether the man was attaching any of his creatures to it; oblivious – with the help of a dose of painkiller – to anything the Denobulan was doing to him. He had too much on his mind to care about how many ribs he had cracked or bruises collected. He had to find a way for them, all of them, to get out of this situation unscathed. Too many people he had grown close to risked suffering because of it. He wanted to protect them from pain, just as he protected them from hostile aliens.

"Mr. Tucker is strong, and strong-willed, Lieutenant," Phlox murmured softly as he checked his finished work. "I am confident he will not give up fighting."

Malcolm resisted the urge to heave a sigh - not a good idea with cracked ribs, even with painkiller coursing though his veins. He blinked and shifted his eyes to Phlox, trying to draw as much comfort as he could from his kind gaze. Although he had a reputation of not getting along with the ship's doctor, they both knew their skirmishes were really part of – by now – a well-established game. He respected the man, as, he was sure, Phlox respected him.

"I may have made a mistake in evaluating the Commander's psychological fitness," Phlox suddenly said in a voice that almost cracked with emotion. "I apologise, Mr. Reed. You could have both been killed."

The confession was as heart-felt as it was unexpected. Malcolm, who, on account of Trip's actions, had actually spared the Denobulan a few uncomplimentary thoughts when down on the planet, couldn't find a trace of anger left in him. All he felt was weariness.

"I am still alive, Doctor," he rasped. He cleared his throat. "And so is Trip. And I wouldn't be so ready to take blame."

Indeed, if truth be told, neither Phlox nor Archer could have anticipated that they would find that strange man on their path. Because somehow Malcolm felt that despite Trip's suffering, without that enigmatic bloke his friend would have carried out his mission just fine.

Phlox sighed for them both. "Is the taping comfortable?" he asked, stepping back. "Can you breathe all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I'm putting you off duty for at least one full day."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "I'm sure a good night's sleep will be more than enough to…"

"You need rest," the Doctor predictably warned, interrupting him.

Malcolm accepted his help wriggling into a sweatshirt; he re-emerged to pleading eyes.

"I already have one patient to worry about, Mr. Reed."

That did it. "All right, Doctor. I could probably use a day off." Malcolm pushed with both hands on the bed's edge and carefully lowered himself to the floor. "Would you call me, though, if there are any changes in the Commander's condition?" he asked gravely, trying not to think that a change could also be for the worse. He cast another look at the drawn curtain.

"Of course, Lieutenant."

Malcolm nodded and left.

"And don't forget to eat something," he heard Phlox call after him as he was going through the sickbay doors.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

§ 9 §

It had been a long and tiring shift, but Hoshi wouldn't call this a day until she had spoken to a certain person. She knew she wouldn't be able to rest properly if she didn't.

Finally the sickbay doors opened and a form trudged out of it. It was the first glimpse Hoshi caught of Malcolm since he had docked, and it did nothing to quench the anxiety that had gripped her since that call.

Malcolm spotted her and stopped. "Ensign."

"Lieutenant." Straightening her shoulders and her resolve, Hoshi enquired, "Are you all right?" Her eyes took in Malcolm's face and she grimaced at the stupidity of her words. "I mean..."

"I'm fine, Hoshi," Malcolm replied a little self-consciously. "Better than I must look, anyway," he added wryly.

They started walking along the corridor.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Malcolm asked, his voice a bit guarded.

Hoshi felt her heart clench at the unusually mangled accent. "I just... wanted to say that..." She faltered, not knowing how to breach the subject.

Malcolm took her gently by one arm and stopped again. "You did the right thing telling the Captain, Hoshi," he said, his grey eyes softening. "Forgive me if you felt I had put you in a tight spot again."

"That wasn't what worried me," Hoshi burst out, unable to hold it in any more. "Or rather, it was; but not for the reasons you might think. I was afraid that you'd..." She faltered again; not something she was much used to, but when it came to Malcolm, for some reason, her linguistic skills tended to fail her.

"End up in the brig again?" Malcolm finished for her. The bandage on his forehead lifted with his eyebrows.

Hoshi sighed. "Yes. I never want to see that happen again," she said, shifting on her legs and hiding behind a hand.

Malcolm took it and lowered it from her face, and his tired grey eyes bore into hers. "I'm not planning on making a habit of that, Hoshi, I promise. Lying to the Captain that time was bloody stupid of me."

"I can't say I disagree with you there," Hoshi commented darkly.

The corners of Malcolm's mouth started to curve up, but fell with a hiss. "Sorry, Ensign," he said, feeling his split lip, "You'll have to do without my blinding smile."

Hoshi rolled her eyes, feeling her features relax. "Don't know how I'll survive that, Lieutenant."

* * *

The last person Malcolm had expected to see when he answered the chime and opened the door of his quarters was the one standing outside it. His surprise was such that he just stood frozen for a moment.

"Commander," he finally stuttered, becoming immediately aware of his state of undress.

After leaving Hoshi, he had grabbed a bite to eat and then he'd headed for his room, where he had washed up as best as he could, put on a pair of shorts and prepared to drop into bed, looking forward to laying his head on the pillow and getting lost to the world. The bell, though, had rung.

"I apologise for the late hour," T'Pol said softly, her body perceptibly tense. "May I come in?"

Malcolm was stunned into silence. In his four years on this ship T'Pol had never once shown up at his door. He opened his mouth but his voice came out only a few seconds later, as if it were out of sync with his body.

"By all means," he said hoarsely, moving aside. "I…" he took a few quick steps to his chair and grabbed a T-shirt, which he pulled on as hastily as his battered body allowed, trying not to grimace, "…wasn't expecting your visit," he finished awkwardly, turning to her.

T'Pol raised her eyebrows in that endearing way of hers, and Malcolm's thoughts flew to Trip. No wonder the man had lost his head for their First Officer; no male crewman on board Enterprise ignored the charms of the Vulcan lady, and he himself had been quite taken with her at the beginning of their mission. A drunken conversation he'd had with Trip that time they had been stranded on the shuttlepod flashed through his mind. Yes, he had taken notice of some of T'Pol's attributes even sooner than Trip. But beauty was not everything, and he, for one, definitely looked for much more in a woman. Not that T'Pol had only looks on offer…

"I regret delaying your rest, Lieutenant." T'Pol took a step and entered the room. The door closed behind her. "I will not stay long," she said quietly.

"It's... not a problem," Malcolm stuttered. It felt utterly strange to be standing in his quarters barefoot, in shorts and T-shirt, alone with T'Pol. He felt uncomfortable, a feeling that increased when he saw her eyes travel over his injuries, rather than around his room, as he would have much preferred.

"I hope you have not come to acute harm."

Malcolm almost frowned. After serving for so long on an Earth vessel T'Pol had subtly changed, gradually becoming less stiff; even her peculiar way of expressing herself had become less... _different_. Now all of a sudden she seemed to have regressed to the T'Pol of old.

"Only a few bruises. I'm fine," he replied, gesturing for her to take a seat. She didn't move. "But only because of your information about the Ferendellians' eyesight, I might add," Malcolm went on. "I must thank you for that. If Trip hadn't shot all the lights out things could have gone a lot differently."

The name brought a hint of emotion over T'Pol's face, but it quickly disappeared. "Then I am grateful I did not disregard the small footnote on the Ferendellians' file in the Vulcan database," she replied.

"So am I, believe me." Malcolm's mouth twitched in a quick smirk. "What can I do for you, Commander?" he asked after a beat. He was exhausted, and only wanted to collapse into bed.

T'Pol took a few steps and stopped in front of him, capturing his gaze. "Lieutenant, I wish to ask you something," she said in a deep voice, "Is the Commander's injury related in any way to his... state of mind?" she asked directly.

Malcolm swallowed. What she really wanted to know, he supposed, was if their recent falling-out had anything to do with Trip getting himself nearly killed. What a delightful question. He licked his lips. He had given Archer only a verbal report so far, and T'Pol seemed not to have been made privy to it yet.

"Trip had... a lot on his mind, T'Pol" Malcolm said carefully, deciding to forego the 'Commanders' and speak more like a friend than a subordinate. He supposed being so definitely out of uniform helped. "But I don't think that during that fight in the bar he took unnecessary risks, if that is what you are asking." He watched relief make a brief appearance over the Vulcan's features.

"Thank you," she breathed out.

"Don't mention it."

"I will now let you get the sleep you undoubtedly require."

Malcolm smiled inwardly – or, as Trip would say, "Get some shuteye, you look like shit." How those two had got together... Perhaps it was true that opposites attracted each other.

T'Pol made to turn, and Malcolm suddenly realised how thin and frail she looked. This was another friend who had gone through a lot lately. He bit the inside of his cheek.

"T'Pol…" The word was out of his mouth before he could think.

She tilted her head questioningly.

"How… are you doing?" he forced out. He hoped his eyes would show her what would be too long and complicated to express in words.

A ripple of something travelled over the Vulcan's lovely face. "I am… better," she replied. "Thank you."

"I was very sorry for what happened," Malcolm added a little awkwardly. "I never said as much, but…"

"You never needed to, Lieutenant," T'Pol filled in.

Malcolm swallowed. Something was on the tip of his tongue and he didn't know if he dared say it. But he had stepped back from helping his friends a few too many times.

"This is probably none of my business," he said hesitantly, "But… I believe that when Trip is better it would be… good if you talked to him." He lowered his gaze. _Not all Humans are like a certain Lieutenant, who likes to wage lonely wars with his feelings, _he silently added. Licking his swollen lip, he raised his eyes again. "Trip is a warm person, and I believe he needs to know that he is not alone in his grief."

He could tell his words had left the mark on T'Pol's heart even though her features were virtually impassive.

"I will consider your suggestion," she said, holding his gaze.

Malcolm nodded; then walked her to the door. She only turned briefly to say good-night, before going gracefully on her way.

As soon as the door had closed, Malcolm staggered to his bed and lowered himself gingerly on it; then, with a groan, he collapsed on his pillow and went out like one of those lights Trip had so deftly destroyed.

* * *

"Greg Sullivan and Tim Clapton." Admiral Gardner spat the names out with ill-concealed anger. "Sullivan was the son of the politician. Probably promised someone in Starfleet some unlikely career advancement, to get the blueprints. Clapton was a small fish. We're not exactly sure how he entered the picture, probably just helped Sullivan get a ride to the planet through his acquaintances in the cargo business. Unfortunately we still don't know who the mole in our organization is."

"That's not going to be easy to find out, with both men dead," Archer commented.

Gardner narrowed his eyes. "We were hoping to capture the people responsible for this alive... I must say I am looking forward to your report, Jon."

Archer bit his lip. "And you will get it, Sir, but I still have to get a written one myself from Lieutenant Reed. He was badly bruised and dog-tired, and the Doctor wants him off duty for a day." Archer didn't flinch away from the Admiral's pinning gaze, even if he definitely wanted to avert his eyes. "From what Reed has told me," he continued, "The sturdier of the two men was killed by his partner when he tried to make a run for it. The other one was shot by Commander Tucker, but Tucker was using an alien weapon and had no time to figure out how to set it on 'stun', provided it even had such a setting."

"What had happened to his phase pistol?"

"It had got... misplaced." Archer heaved a deep breath. "Admiral, you will get a full report, just give me a little more time."

Gardner pursed his lips. "How is Tucker?" he enquired.

"Still with us. Phlox says he has a chance." Archer tried to draw hope from his own words.

"Let's hope so. All right, Jon, I'll be in touch."

"Aye, Sir."

Gardner's face disappeared, to be replaced by the Starfleet logo. Archer stared at it for a long moment, before deciding that also a starship Captain was entitled to some sleep.

* * *

The throbbing under his hand was getting erratic, a wild rhythm that desperately tried to keep going. Malcolm knew the battle was one that was destined to be lost; he could feel Trip's blood seeping through his fingers, his pulse missing beats; he could feel the jerking as his lungs struggled to inflate. Worst of all, he could read the terror in his eyes. His own lungs began to draw air in hitching gasps, and it just wasn't fair. Malcolm let go of the wound and brought his hands to his neck. It hurt.

His eyes opened to total darkness. The lump in his throat was more painful than his cracked ribs, and he was as out of breath as if he had just run the marathon.

Nightmares. Brilliant.

Malcolm lay still for a moment, fighting away a lingering sensation of despair. Then, disentangling himself from his sweat-drenched sheet, he painfully pushed to a sitting position. The effect of the painkiller must have worn off, for breathing wasn't much fun and he could feel every bruise. Perhaps that's what had triggered the bad dream. With a careful sigh, he switched on the light and checked the time: five am. He had slept for a little over six hours.

Twenty minutes later he was crossing the threshold of sickbay. Phlox was, as usual, up and about.

"Lieutenant."

The Doctor took a look at him and waved him to a biobed. "Pain or bad dreams?" he enquired.

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up fleetingly. "Both."

"Let me give you another hypospray of painkiller."

"Thank you," Malcolm murmured a moment later, breathing more freely. His eyes sought the drawn curtain around Trip's bed. "Any change?"

Phlox's mouth curved into his famous smile, and Malcolm wondered when it had suddenly turned into such a beautiful sight.

"The Commander is definitely improving. He's breathing on his own now." The Doctor jerked his head. "Go on, Mr. Reed. Mr. Tucker is still sedated, but a short visit will do _you_ some good. Might even cure you of your nightmares."

Malcolm shot Phlox a look. He stepped over and with a hesitant hand moved a corner of the curtain aside. It was the first time he set eyes on Trip after returning to Enterprise. He looked to be simply asleep, under the sheet that covered him. His face was pale but relaxed.

"When do you think he'll…"

There was a thunderous noise and the ship suddenly shuddered under his feet, sending him off balance. A moment later lights went on tactical alert.

Malcolm regained his footing and hurried to the closest comm. link.

"Reed to Bridge."

"Sir," Donna O'Neill, the shift's CO, shouted back, "Two ships. Came out of the blue and fired without warning."

"Polarise the hull plating and stand by weapons," Malcolm ordered. "I'll be right there." He flew out of sickbay as fast as his injuries allowed him.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

§ 10 §

When he entered the bridge, Malcolm cast a fast look around and saw that neither the Captain nor T'Pol were there yet. No wonder, at five-thirty a.m. the alpha shift people were normally engaged in more relaxing activities. Müller at tactical shot him a quick but bewildered look, and he was suddenly reminded that not everyone had seen his lovely new make-up yet.

Another hit rocked the ship; Malcolm staggered, having to hold on to the Captain's chair, which O'Neill had just vacated for him.

"Take us out of orbit. Evasive manoeuvres," Malcolm ordered Travis's replacement, taking command. Then he glanced at Müller. "Return fire."

Just then Archer burst onto the bridge, with T'Pol right after him. "Rep…"

"Incoming!" Müller shouted, interrupting his Captain, seconds before the ship was rocked again. "Direct hit to one nacelle."

"Two ships, Sir. Not exactly friendly," Malcolm informed his C.O. He started to move towards his console, but was stopped by the collected urgency in T'Pol's voice.

"We're being boarded," she said from the other side of the Bridge. "I'm reading two transports on E deck.

"How many people?" Malcolm asked.

"Four biosigns, unknown."

"Malcolm," Archer said tautly, and Malcolm knew that despite Doctor's orders, and even in sweatpants and T-shirt, he was officially back on duty.

He reached for the comm. link at his station. "Security team to E deck; boarding party with four intruders, secure Engineering." Grabbing a phase pistol from the bridge locker, he hurried towards the turbo lift. As he passed Archer, he met the Captain's eyes and read the usual silent warning to be careful in them. He had so hated that at the beginning of their mission; it had made him feel like he was not trusted to be able to carry out his duty. Now it made him feel just the opposite: valued. Strange how things could change with time. In his hurry to get off the bridge, he almost bumped smack into Hoshi, who was coming out of the turbo lift with Travis.

* * *

"The ships' configuration has no match in the Vulcan database," T'Pol announced.

Enterprise shuddered once more under the fire of the enemy vessels. Sparks went off behind Müller, who flinched away from them.

"Return fire!" Archer ordered. "Go to warp, Ensign," he then told Travis, who had rushed to his station. He braced himself against the helm console and looked over Mayweather's shoulder, but the man turned to him in concern.

"The warp drive is offline, Captain. We only have impulse."

"Trip!" Archer said, pressing the comm. link. "Kelby!" he corrected himself, grimacing, "We could use warp drive."

"Acknowledged, Captain." Kelby sounded definitely out of breath. "Stand by; we are working as fast as we can."

Another booming shot rocked the ship.

"Ensign," Archer took a step and grabbed the railing by the tactical station. Müller's green eyes flashed up to him for a second, and they had the same determined look Reed's always showed in such circumstances. A moment later on the view screen two beams crossed the blackness of space, one of them hitting one of the two ships.

"Well done."

"Thank you, Sir, but it's going to be difficult doing any serious damage, if we can't manoeuvre," Müller muttered, shaking his head.

"Do what you can."

"Sir," Travis said in surprise, "They seem to be moving off."

"They probably don't want to endanger their boarding party," T'Pol commented.

* * *

Phase pistol first, Malcolm exited the turbo lift and, after a cautious look around, took off at a jog towards Engineering. He had a gut instinct that that was the target of the four intruders. He came to the bend in the corridor before it, and crouched against the bulkhead, peeking out. His two men were outside the hatch.

"Report," he told them, jumping up and breaching the last meters.

"They're inside, Sir," one of them said. "Were already entering as we arrived."

"All right." Malcolm licked his lips, thinking fast. "You're with me," he told a sturdy red-head. "We'll get in from the higher level access." He got to a comm. link. "Reed to McKenzie. Get down to Engineering with another MACO. Quickly." He turned to the other security man. "Let's time ourselves." He looked at his watch and before jogging off added, "Five minutes; and then burst in. We'll be already there by then."

* * *

Kelby really thought working on a starship was a swell job – except when they came into contact with aliens. And even less when aliens came into contact with _them_. That time with the Orion slaves he had behaved in such an embarrassing way that it still made him turn beet read when he thought of it, his only consolation being that he had been in good company: all the male crew, with the exception of Tucker, had gone berserk. Now he was in a corner with the rest of the Engineering crew under threat of a deadly-looking weapon. The guy holding it had appeared out of the blue with three companions, who were currently busy downloading info from as many consoles. These aliens weren't green and weren't shapely, and those tattoos on the side of their noses were definitely not as appealing as the Orion girls'... He'd better cut that train of thought and concentrate on the present.

Sorry, Captain – he sighed inwardly – it's going to be a while before I can give you warp drive. Provided our friends here leave us alive.

It was when he spotted Reed quietly coming onto the higher level in that crouching walk of his, that he felt the first ray of hope; the Lieutenant had a way about him that made him feel protected even in a situation like this.

Reed caught his eye and made a gesture, raising three fingers and pointing to the hatch. The message was clear: things were going to get pretty hot in there. Kelby's relief was replaced by a shot of adrenaline, and he shifted his gaze quickly away from their Security Officer, not wanting to betray his presence. Too late. The alien's eyes narrowed; then the man turned abruptly, shooting as he did so, aiming in the rough direction where Kelby had been looking a moment before and missing Reed by inches.

Kelby reacted without thinking – if he had engaged his brain, he would have realised the red piping on his uniform didn't necessarily put him in the same category as Lieutenant Reed. He grabbed the alien from behind, wrapping an arm around his throat. They struggled for a moment or two; then he felt himself being lifted and catapulted over the man's head, and before landing with a hard thump on the deckplating he had the time to think that when he had first expressed the desire to fly this was not what he had meant.

* * *

The laser beam had passed close to his ear; Malcolm had felt its heat. He aimed to fire but the alien was grappling with Kelby. He caught a good sight of their enemy and cursed: bloody Ferendellians.

The element of surprise was gone but the MACOs burst in right on time, and all hell broke lose. Now Malcolm, however, had an ace up his sleeve. He dived for the light controls and plunged Engineering into virtually total darkness; only the instruments' lights were left on. But before they could overpower and apprehend their confused enemies, these had dematerialised in front of their eyes.

* * *

"The boarding party has transported out, Captain," T'Pol said.

"The ships are going to warp," Travis echoed.

"Malcolm, report," Archer ordered into the comm. link.

"They took over Engineering, but no one was injured, Sir. Unfortunately they got away," the Lieutenant promptly replied. "Ferendellians, by the way."

Archer heard him spit out the word as if it were something that he didn't want in his mouth.

"Kelby, what about warp drive?" he enquired tautly.

"Kelby is recovering from trying to fly without wings, Sir," Malcolm said darkly. "He's going to be fine, but needs a moment to re-group. Rostov is telling me one nacelle suffered damage, and it's going to be a few hours before we can go to warp."

Archer pursed his lips tightly. After a beat he dared ask, "Did they get what they came for?"

Malcolm's voice held a certain amount of defeat as it floated out of the comm. link.

"I'm not sure they got _all_ they came for, Captain, but they certainly got some."

A muttered something sounding a bit too much like a four-letter word escaped Archer's mouth. He could not remember ever having cursed in front of the Bridge crew, and he bit his lip in regret.

"See if you can figure out how much," he replied hoarsely.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

§ 11 §

Malcolm sat by Trip's biobed, looking unblinkingly at his friend. He was lying on a slightly raised bed, to help his breathing, and was peacefully asleep. If one ignored the bandages around his chest, one would think that he was just fine.

It had been four a.m. when Malcolm had been jerked awake by yet another one of those lovely dreams that haunted his nights lately, regularly depriving him of a few hours of sleep. Well, that ought to teach him, stubbornly refusing to go to Phlox for sedatives; if things kept going like this, soon he would have to. He had needed a friend, but the only friend whom he felt comfortable going to at such an ungodly hour of the night was in sickbay. So he had finally decided to go to him all the same. Even if Trip slept, he still felt better there than alone in his quarters.

Trip, at least, was on the mend. He had already been awake, and had even spoken to Archer a couple of times. Phlox had shooed away all other visitors, and only this morning, probably taking pity on the sight he must be offering, had allowed Malcolm to sit by his friend's bed.

The Ferendellians had got away with a good deal of information on Enterprise's W5 engine. The damage to the nacelle had turned out to be more serious than Kelby had anticipated, and by the time they'd had warp drive back online, the two alien ships' trails had already dissipated. Malcolm had felt despondent ever since, and that had been two days ago. The knowledge he had done everything possible to stop them was not of much comfort: he had failed. There were no two ways about it.

"Cheer up, 'tis not my funeral yet," a low but familiar drawl suddenly said, piercing his grim thoughts.

Malcolm refocused on a pair of blue eyes and a pale smile. "About time you woke up," he said, mirroring Trip's expression. The corners of his mouth, though, dropped quickly as images that were half reality half nightmare flashed before his eyes, and he had to struggle with a sudden surge of emotion to add, "It's good to have you back."

"Yeah." Trip's eyes took in his bruises and his smile fell too. "Dammit, Malcolm… I'm sorry," he stammered. "I was such an ass, and…" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.

Malcolm shook his head, wanting to say something, but Trip held up a weak hand, stopping him.

"You were there for me and in return I..." He lowered his eyes. "I think I was… re-directin' some of the hurt that I suffered. Totally on the wrong person."

Silence stretched, so Malcolm felt authorised to speak. "I admit: I called you a few very creative names down there, Commander," he said, raising his eyebrows. "But not entirely for the reasons you might think." His voice dropped down low. "I didn't know what had happened, and yet I couldn't forget our mission and come looking for you."

"Sorry," Trip breathed out again. "I meant to be gone only for a couple of minutes, but I got lost in my thoughts and… and then that guy was there."

Malcolm clenched his jaw. If there was a hell, that man deserved to burn in it. "What happened?" he asked, an edge in his voice. A part of him wanted to know exactly what had gone on.

Trip winced in misery.

"Forget it," Malcolm hurried to add. "If you prefer not to talk about it I'll understand."

"He seemed to know so much about me, as if he could really read my eyes," Trip began, ignoring his words. "And I wanted so much to believe that he could take the pain away…" He paused. "I felt mesmerised. We went into a side street, and he put his hands to my temples, and for a moment it seemed to work. I don't know what he did to me, but I woke up later, slumped on the ground, stripped clean."

There was a moment of silence.

"Wise men flatt'ring…" Malcolm murmured thoughtfully.

"What?"

Malcolm heaved a sigh. "Something that just came into my mind: 'Wise men flatt'ring may deceive us with their vain mysterious art'," he quoted. "'Magic charms can ne'er relieve us nor can heal a wounded heart'." He pursed his lips. "It's a beautiful aria by Handel."

"I should have relied on a friend not a stranger to help me," Trip said regretfully. "Instead I pushed you and the others away…"

Malcolm passed a weary hand over his eyes. He felt part of the blame for what had happened. "Yes, you did. But I didn't really go out of my way to try and get past your barriers," he muttered.

There was another heavy silence and Malcolm saw Trip's eyes travel over his bruises again. "You ok?" he asked, wincing.

"Fine."

Predictably, Trip shot him a sceptical look, so Malcolm added, in a fairly good impersonation of the ship's physician, "Bruises and cracked ribs; nothing extraordinary for Mr. Reed." He was glad to see his friend's face relax in a genuine smile. "But only thanks to your target shooting," he went on more seriously. "You may have showed up a bit late, but saved my life down there; I was going to lose that fight."

Phlox appeared, and Malcolm bit his lip, trading a glance with Trip. He should have known the Doctor would have unobtrusively been keeping an eye on them; he just hoped he had not overheard his imitation.

"Commander, I think you ought to rest now," the Denobulan said, checking Trip's monitors. "And you too, Lieutenant. Your shift doesn't start for another three hours. Why don't you go and lie down again; you might yet catch a little sleep."

"Three hours?" Trip frowned. "What time is it?"

"Nearly five a.m.," Phlox replied.

"Just give me another minute, Doc," Trip asked in an pleading voice. "I'm feelin' ok, I swear."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "You and Mr. Reed will never change. As soon as you feel slightly better, you start wanting to do as you please," he complained. "All right," he added, walking off. "But just a minute."

Trip didn't look like he'd been listening to that at all; Malcolm felt again under scrutiny as his friend's gaze studied him closely, and this time he knew it wasn't because of his bruises.

"What's up, Malcolm?" Trip enquired. "'Cause somehow I doubt you had planned to pay me a visit this early in the mornin'."

Malcolm closed his eyes briefly and passed a hand through his hair. "I suppose feeling a friend fading away under your hand as his blood seeps through your fingers wins you a free subscription to Nightmares," he said with wry sarcasm, shooting Trip a dark glance.

Trip raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in understanding, and Malcolm smirked, knowing that was not all of it.

"And…"

"And?"

"And as if that weren't enough, I failed the Captain, the ship, Starfleet… whatever," he continued in misery and anger. "A couple of days ago we were attacked and boarded by four Ferendellians, and they got away with a good deal of information on our W5 engine."

"Knowing you, I'm sure you did everything you could to prevent that," Trip said, seeking his eyes.

Malcolm slumped in his chair. "Of course I did, but does it matter? What counts is the result."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He shouldn't burden Trip with more worries, but it felt so good being able to unburden himself with a friend, _this_ friend… He had missed that. The weeks since that messy Terra Prime business and little Elizabeth's death had been hard and lonely for him too. But now perhaps that time was over.

Taking as deep a breath as he dared, he pushed up, getting ready to leave. "I'll be fine, Trip," he said, seeing concern in the blue gaze. "It's that… well, you know me. I don't take failure lightly."

"I think we both need to restart some of the good habits we've recently abandoned, Lieutenant," Trip said with a faint smile. "Habits that involve beer."

Malcolm felt warm relief spread through him. "I would like that very much," he said with feeling. With a smile he added, "I'll let you rest, then, so you get out of here soon," He made to leave but Trip stopped him.

"Just another thing, Malcolm," he said. "When I talked to the Capt'n…" He hesitated; then seemed to find the right words. "It sounded like he felt responsible for what happened down there. I was sure he'd put an official reprimand on my file, but he doesn't seem to have a mind to do it…"

Malcolm lowered his gaze to the floor. "I'm afraid it's partly my doing," he admitted after a beat. He had known sooner or later he would have had to tell Trip this; but he would have rather it had been later. "Before we launched, I told Captain Archer I felt you might not… be ready to go on a dangerous mission. He disagreed. He pressed me to tell him whether or not I felt comfortable having you with me, and I said it was fine." Struggling, he met Trip's eyes again. "Now Archer thinks I was right; that you should have stayed on board."

Trip's pale and obviously drained face became troubled.

"I should have come to you with my qualms in the first place, but we were hardly speaking to each other…" Malcolm mumbled regretfully. He cursed himself for the umpteenth time in the last few days. It seemed that everything he did or said these days ended up hurting someone.

"Do you think I shouldn't have gone?" Trip asked deadpan.

Malcolm didn't want to answer that question. He didn't know how to. He pursed his lips. "I… I don't really know. It's hard to think objectively and…"

"Lieutenant, I'd be grateful if you left _now_," Phlox said sternly, appearing from nowhere as he often did. "I thought you had asked for one more minute, Commander," he added with a severe look at Trip. "Look at you, you are exhausted."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Malcolm muttered. "I'll leave right away."

He silently blessed the physician's timely appearance. He felt so confused about this whole business. He had a strange feeling he didn't have the entire picture; that something still escaped him.

"Get some rest; we'll talk later," he told Trip, hoping this last bit of conversation wouldn't set them back again just now that the old Trip seemed to be coming back. Trip nodded silently, lost in thought, and Malcolm went away with a heavy heart.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

§ 12 §

"As I said, Admiral, it was a surprise attack. We never expected the Ferendellians to come and get what they wanted right on board."

Archer heard the defensive tone of his words and winced inwardly. He didn't like to find excuses, but it was the plain truth. He knew Malcolm had done all he could to prevent what had happened. But even he was only _human_ after all.

Gardner looked thoroughly unhappy. The admiral still had no clue as to who the Starfleet traitor was, and now he had this other problem on his hands.

"I still have to receive that first report, Jon," he said irritably. "I trust Lieutenant Reed has filed his by now?"

Archer tried not to let his feelings through. "Yes, Sir. I apologise, but with the attack and all that followed it's been an… eventful couple of days." He winced. He was starting to sound like T'Pol. He squared his shoulders, knowing he could not delay writing the fateful report much longer. "I'll get down to it, I promise."

"You do that." Gardner gave him a last long and meaningful look and a nod, and cut the transmission off.

* * *

Hoshi reached out and put a hand on Malcolm's arm. "Shifting it around on the plate isn't going to make your food more appetising, you know?"

The reply she got was a grunt. She narrowed her eyes, putting on the most Klingon-like expression of her repertoire; she was getting tired of having a monolith sitting at her table. "Would you mind finding a more eloquent reply, Malcolm? After all, I'm a linguist."

That got her some attention. Malcolm's eyes shot up from his plate, startled. Then a soft blush crept up his cheeks. "Sorry… I apologise… I…"

He looked away, flustered, and Hoshi was brought back to three years before, when she had tried to find out what mysterious Lieutenant Reed's favourite food was and got them into a thoroughly embarrassing situation. She couldn't deny, though, that she found a floundering Malcolm so much more endearing than the unfaltering Armoury Officer he was most of the times. Her face softened into a smile.

"Apology accepted, provided you tell me what's bothering you."

Malcolm shot back a glance before averting his eyes again, fixing them to a spot on the deckplating. "It ought to be obvious," he muttered.

Hoshi huffed. "You can't be serious, Malcolm. It was a surprise attack. There was nothing more you could have done. And you weren't even officially on duty when it happened," she said, funnelling as much conviction as she could into her words.

Malcolm smirked unhappily. "There is something else bothering me, actually. It's something to do with our mission on the planet. But I don't know what it is. I just can't put my finger on it. I've been trying so hard. It's there, in the back of my mind, and it's so bloody annoying not to be able to bring it to the forefront…"

Tentatively reaching out to touch his arm again, Hoshi waited till the grey eyes turned to her. "Don't torture yourself," she said softly. "You both came back alive."

"Thank God for that," Malcolm breathed out.

Hoshi's mouth twitched. "I know T'Pol is beautiful," she commented, letting humour gleam in her eyes, "Didn't know she was _divine_, though."

Malcolm frowned. "What?"

"If I'm not wrong it was she who read that little footnote about the Ferendellians' alleged blindness in poor light." She shook her head. "Small print that made all the difference," she commented thoughtfully. "You've got to thank _her_, as much as God, if you came back alive."

"Small print…" Malcolm repeated absently. Suddenly his eyes lit up. "Hoshi, you're brilliant!" he said, shooting up from his chair. "A bloody genius!"

"What have I said?" Hoshi enquired. But Malcolm squeezed her shoulder lightly and took off, shouting over his shoulder, "I'll tell you later…"

* * *

Malcolm stopped in front of Archer's quarters. It was early evening; the Captain wouldn't be asleep yet. He straightened his shoulders and raised a hand to the chime, pressing.

"Come," a tired voice called.

Taking a deep breath, Malcolm opened the door and went in.

"Malcolm," Archer said in ill-disguised surprise.

Archer was out of uniform, but looked far from relaxed. There were dark circles under his eyes and the water polo ball was on his bed, probably still warm from having bounced off the wall.

"Captain. I hope I am not disturbing."

"No… of course not."

Malcolm bit his lip. "Could I have a word with you?"

"Of course," Archer repeated. "Come in."

He tried to sound welcoming, but there was exhaustion in his voice.

"What can I do for you?"

"Sir, if I may ask…" Malcolm's eyes shifted briefly away. "Have you sent your report on our away mission to Starfleet Command yet?"

There was a puzzled pause. "I'm just about to do it," Archer eventually replied with a glance towards a padd. lying on his desk. He narrowed his eyes. "If you are here to try and convince me again that I shouldn't take responsibility for what happened, you might as well turn on your heels, Lieutenant," he added firmly.

Malcolm felt a knot in his gut tighten. But he had come here with a purpose and would not leave without having said what he had to say.

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

Archer's brow creased, but he nodded.

Malcolm steadied himself. "Captain," he said, forcing himself to relax his rigid posture and use a less official tone of voice, "That man, the one who robbed Trip, was telepathic. He sensed Trip's troubles, and took advantage of them."

"How do you know that?"

"I went to re-read the small print in the file on Troxia, in the Vulcan database," Malcolm said, lowering his eyes self-consciously.

"Go on," Archer said quietly.

"There was a small foot-note that referred to another section of the database. I had meant to look that up too, but something in the Armoury required my immediate personal attention; and later there was no time."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Malcolm darted a quick glance at his Captain. Archer was looking at him, obviously waiting for him to continue.

"It appears a few Troxians have retained the gift of telepathy and hypnosis," he went on, "Something which all of them once had but, for some unexplained reason, most individuals have lost over the centuries. By law every child at a certain age is checked, and those with the gift are marked with a black dot in the middle of their forehead." Malcolm raised his eyebrows emphatically. "Apparently some of these special people like to use their _gift_ for illicit businesses."

"And that man had the dot?" Archer enquired.

Malcolm sighed. "He did indeed; although I only saw it when I gave the bloke a good shake and his funny hat went flying off his head." With a mirthless huff he added darkly, "At the time it didn't mean anything to me; or I would have probably strangled the man."

Archer turned and took a few steps to the porthole. He stood there looking out thoughtfully. "This doesn't change things, Malcolm," he said eventually. "I still sent a troubled man on a difficult mission."

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but this changes everything," Malcolm countered firmly. "You didn't know about these telepathic Troxians, Captain; and I believe Commander Tucker would have carried out his mission just fine if it hadn't been for that man. I was there. I saw how he played with the Commander's mind. All Trip can be charged with, really, was to get lost in his thoughts when he took that walk before dawn; and I wouldn't dismiss the fact that his distraction might have been a consequence of that character's fiddling with his brain. And Trip would have been back in time, in any case, if it hadn't been for that stranger."

Malcolm impulsively took a step towards Archer, and Archer turned to face him. "Captain, if anyone is responsible for anything that person is me. I didn't look that information up. I'm prepared to face any disciplinary measure you may see fit."

Archer narrowed his eyes. "You said it yourself, Malcolm: there was no time, you had to get down to the planet. I'm not going to punish you for having no time to read a small foot-note."

Malcolm took another step towards Archer. "Sir, Trip may have his demons, but that doesn't mean he is psychologically unsound and unfit for duty; and I doubt he would want to see _you_ suffer for what happened on that planet," he said with feeling. "Bloody hell," he added, for once not caring if his Captain heard him curse, "After the Expanse don't we all have some demons to fight?"

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

§ Epilogue §

"There don't seem to be many reasons for a toast," Malcolm commented grimly, turning the bottle of beer listlessly in his hands. "Can't find any, at least." His mouth curved slightly downward as he leaned back in Trip's chair. "The Ferendellians got away with stolen information, Starfleet can't find the mole…"

Malcolm cut himself off and smirked. He was being his usual pessimistic self and was setting a heavy mood, and it probably wasn't what Trip needed right now. It was the first time in weeks that they had got together for a chat and a drink, and he was spoiling it… He raised wary eyes and was relieved to find only an enigmatic smile on Trip's face. Perhaps something of the old Trip really was back.

"I can," Trip said quietly. "Find a reason for a toast, that is." His eyes flickered with that glint that Malcolm had missed so much, and which he had always thought was the visible sign of the man's brilliant mind, as much as of his outgoing nature.

Trip raised his bottle. "To knowing that no matter how hard I tried to act like a jerk, in the end what happened to me down there wasn't really my doing." He shook his head lightly. "God, was I glad to know that guy screwed my mind up..."

"Right. I'll toast to that," Malcolm agreed with a soft huff of a laugh, raising his own beer and drinking.

It was the evening after Trip had finally been released from sickbay, and it felt good to be here, in Trip's quarters, the two of them; like slipping into old comfortable clothes. Malcolm felt his mouth pulling into a slight upward curve. "Actually I do have something to toast to," he said, raising his eyebrows and his bottle. "To restoring good old habits such as quiet evenings with a friend."

"Yeah."

The word had been little more than a sigh. They both took another swig and fell into silence.

Malcolm let his eyes wander over his friend. Trip was beginning to look a little better, at least on the outside. But wounds of the body were often easier to heal than wounds of the heart.

"How are you doing, Trip?" he asked gently. And then, remembering his friend's reaction the last time he had enquired, down on the planet, he added cautiously, "If you don't mind my asking."

Trip shot him a contrite look; then passed a hand through his hair, creasing his brow. "I am… better," he said, unknowingly echoing T'Pol's words. He heaved a thoughtful breath. "I guess seeing death in the face makes you realise that, no matter what, life is still beautiful," he murmured, eyes on his hands nursing the bottle.

Malcolm narrowed his gaze, knowing exactly how that felt. "That it does," he said in a husky voice.

"Losing a child must be just about the most painful thing a parent can go through," Trip choked out. He heaved a steadying breath. "But time heals all wounds, they say."

"Yes, that's what they say," Malcolm agreed quietly.

Passing a hand over his face, Trip added, "I don't know if I ever really expected this thing between me and T'Pol to work. It went through so many ups and downs and… we are so different…"

Malcolm saw him pick at the label on the beer bottle. Suddenly Trip's eyes came up to him, intense.

"It's that… when I learned we had a daughter, after the initial shock … I guess I had hoped the child would bring us together for good. It didn't," Trip concluded with a grimace.

"Do you love T'Pol?" Malcolm asked bluntly.

It was a difficult, possibly painful question; but he felt Trip finally needed to open up with someone. It had been obvious to the whole crew that something had been going on between him and T'Pol; but except for a few teasing remarks Malcolm had respected his friend's privacy and not pressed him about it. For Trip's own sake, perhaps that moment had come.

Trip looked at him blankly for a moment. "It's so damn difficult to know," he breathed out. "I have… feelings for her. But when she acts the Vulcan… she can be so irritatin'." He swallowed. "I probably wouldn't be able to live a lifetime with someone like her beside me."

Malcolm found nothing to reply. He had only really wanted Trip to say things out loud in the hope it would help him find some peace of mind – besides, he certainly wasn't the best person to give advice on matters of the heart. Yet, as silence stretched, he found himself blurting out, "Perhaps you and T'Pol ought to give yourselves time. Or give _time_ a chance to heal your hearts before you let a new feeling in. You have shared so much." Seeking Trip's gaze, he added, "Start with friendship. You never know where that might lead."

"Maybe," Trip mumbled, sounding doubtful.

"Friendship, in philosophy and in literature, is often considered a nobler sentiment than love," Malcolm said, tilting his head. "A bond that ought to prevail over any other." He saw the words sink in and make an impact.

Trip looked up and pinned him with his gaze. "I wouldn't want to do without either; but certainly a lover cannot replace a true friend," he said meaningfully.

Acknowledging the hidden message with a quick smile, Malcolm watched Trip's feature marginally relax. Malcolm took another swig of beer; then, elbows on his knees, leaned forward and got lost in his own thoughts.

Actually, he should learn to look at the cup half full, he supposed. The Captain had finally seen his point and recognised that no one could be held responsible for what had happened to Trip during their mission; the W6 blueprint _had_ been retrieved; and Trip was recovering. Well, at least physically; although his pain seemed… less raw. Perhaps his heart was beginning to mend as well.

They had both fallen into such a comfortable silence that the chime almost startled them.

"Sorry, the bar's closed," Trip drawled, drawing out of his abstraction and pushing slowly to his feet.

"And whatever beer is left is not for sale," Malcolm added with a wicked grin.

"What if it's the Capt'n?" Trip wondered aloud, shooting him a challenging glace.

"Ah, no." Malcolm let his eyes go steely. "The man can't _order_ you to give him your beer, you're still off duty."

Trip's soft chuckle died in his throat when the door opened, revealing a thin figure clad in a red catsuit.

"T'Pol," Trip said in hesitant surprise.

Malcolm saw the Vulcan latch her hands behind her back. "Am I… disturbing you?" she asked quietly.

It took Trip a moment to reply. "No… Come in." He moved aside.

"Lieutenant." T'Pol's eyes lingered one brief moment on Malcolm as she came in.

"Commander."

So T'Pol had followed his advice and come to talk to Trip after all. Malcolm got up, nodded, and holding the neck of his beer bottle in between second and middle finger went to the door, where Trip was still standing. "Thanks for the company," he told him in too low a voice for, hopefully, even a Vulcan to hear. "I had missed this."

Trip's eyes warmed and he squeezed his arm in what Malcolm thought was a silent promise that things would slowly be returning to normal.

Malcolm strolled along the corridor, back to his quarters. Yes, wounded hearts _would_ heal. Even broken ones, like Trip's. Even allegedly unfeeling ones, like T'Pol's. With the help of friends. Despite wise men flatt'ring and magic charms.

"Malcolm," a voice called from behind him. He turned, putting a smile on his face for this particular crewmember. He owed her one from before, after all. He saw Hoshi's eyes track to his beer bottle.

"I see you and Trip are back on _speaking_ terms…" she teased as she approached.

Malcolm straightened his shoulders, ignoring her gibe. "Most definitely."

"So, are you going to tell me why I am such a _bloody_ genius?" Hoshi, asked, her eyes dancing with mirth.

Malcolm allowed himself to stare into them for a moment.

"Malcolm? Have you lost your tongue?"

Blinking out of his daydreaming, Malcolm gave her a courteous bow. "Your beauty, my lady, leaves me speechless." He suddenly felt in a lighter mood than he had in weeks. He watched Hoshi look at him with a frown and an intrigued smile on her lips and he let his own smile go warmer. "Let me offer you a cup of tea, Hoshi, shall we? It's a... long story."

THE END


End file.
